


tell me i'm an angel (kick me like a stray)

by orphan_account



Series: brilliant, radiant academic talent [1]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Eventual Fluff, Gratuitous Swearing, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Office Sex, Peter is a 23 year old grad student TAing for prof. beck, enemies to lovers (i guess), excessive use of the word "brat", just... more dirty talk than you've ever heard, oh! and panties!, time to be self indulgent with a college AU!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21826063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Peter Parker is the sweetheart of his physics program's graduate division, a title he very much deserves from his endless manners and straight-As, thank you. Every professor he's worked with agrees.Every professor, that is, except Quentin Beck, the shithead he's stuck TA-ing for this semester. And Beck never seems to shut up about it.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Series: brilliant, radiant academic talent [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599373
Comments: 120
Kudos: 379





	1. 1

It was 12:40PM, and the LED lights of the packed lecture hall seemed to bore down on Peter as he scribbled with increasingly frantic energy. Ten minutes left of class. Twenty more quizzes to grade. Then he’d be home free—no Professor Beck to berate him about how last year’s TA could get it done faster, neater, and really, Peter’s supposed to be the department prodigy, is  _ this _ where he falls short? It was manipulative, and annoying, and petty, and it worked every  _ fucking  _ time. 

The quizzes were basic enough, but Beck insisted Peter circled the correct answer for any questions missed. In a class of only freshmen and sophomores taught by someone like him, that was most of them. And of course there were four possible quiz versions. Why wouldn’t there be?

Fifteen more.  _ Come on, let class run late this time, just this once—  _

“—hey, are you even listening to me? Peter?”

His head shot up from the desk. Professor Beck was looking down at him from the podium with a single raised eyebrow. He could feel the eyes of the class on him, too, curious, disinterested, and otherwise.

“ _ What _ ?” he spat out. Peter covered his mouth immediately, still holding his red pen in hand.  _ Fuckfuckfuck. _ “Uh, I mean, yes, sir?” 

“Wow,” Beck said, stretching out the syllable in a bored monotone. “You really weren’t paying attention. Some multitasker. Can you write down what I’m saying on the board for everyone, please? If it’s not too much trouble, that is, Peter.” 

Peter flushed, probably all the way down to his toes, and gripped the edge of his desk with tight hands as he pulled himself up to the podium, to a simultaneously unimpressed and extremely amused professor Beck.   


“Can’t you just do it?” Peter said, harsh but quiet, grabbing a piece of chalk from Beck. “I’m almost done.”   


“So sorry to interrupt your work with my silly lecture, Mr. Parker, but I have a TA for a reason,” Beck whispered back. “Go on.”    


Peter scowled. God, he was so fucking annoying.    


“Ready?” Beck asked when Peter was at the chalkboard, his hand raised to take notes. Peter nodded tersely. “Good. Office hours are changing next week for midterms: Monday will be 3PM-6PM, Wednesday 2PM-4PM, Friday 3-5PM. Also in preparation for midterms, Mr. Parker will be holding a review session on everything we’ve covered thus far in the course. That will be next Thursday, 6PM-8PM. Peter’s office hours are staying the same as listed on the syllabus. Feel free to take a picture of the board, and I’ll see you all Friday.” 

Peter finished writing the last line, the time for his review session, and paused.   


That was  _ it _ ?   


Students began shutting their laptops, clicking their pens, and climbing up from their seats and out of the lecture hall. Peter turned around to look at Professor Beck, who was shutting off his laptop and unplugging the wires connecting it to the projector.   


If it was only a couple of dates, he could’ve thrown it on his powerpoint, easy as pie and readily available to anybody viewing the lecture slides at a later time. A diagram, sure, that would have made sense for Peter to write on the board. But this?   


“ Are you trying to torment me?” Peter blurted out, and immediately bit his tongue. He really needed to stop doing that—Beck, apparently, brought out the worst in him. Beck turned around, and again he was met with that smug, bored expression.    


“What was that, Peter?”   


“You could’ve just made a powerpoint slide. Or sent an email. It was just office hours stuff,” Peter said, placing the piece of chalk back on the podium. Beck’s eyes flicked down to his hand before they met his gaze once more. “I was almost done grading the quizzes, you know.”   


“Your fault for being so slow with them,  _ kid _ ,” Beck said with a click of his tongue. As if Peter hadn’t given himself permanent carpal tunnel from moving his wrist so quickly. As if Beck didn’t see him doing that. He opened his mouth to reply, but Beck spoke first. “Get ‘em to me by the end of the day. I’ll be in my office till five.”   


“I only have ten left!” Peter protested desperately. Alone time with Beck meant harsher insults, more venom. He didn’t want that. And… Beck was nerve-racking to be around, with or without an audience. “I could finish them right now, it would only take me two minutes—”   


“The next class is coming in right now, Peter, and I’m sure they don’t want to wait for you to finish something that should’ve already been done.” Beck shoved his laptop in his bag, picking his jacket up off the table next to his podium. “My office, before five. Try not to be late.”   


And with a pretentious, annoying wave of his hand, Beck left the lecture hall.  Peter was left standing in shock as the next wave of students filtered in.   


_ He’s got the same fields of study and interests as you do _ , the department heads had said. Nevermind that he’d had classes with Dr. Stark in undergrad, and had gotten one of his letters of rec from him. Nevermind that he didn’t  _ loathe _ Tony Stark, and Stark didn’t verbally humiliate him in front of a hundred undergrad freshmen every class.  _ Professor Beck will be a good fit for you. You’ll get along well.  _ He didn't know how he managed to avoid Beck his entire undergrad career, but good lord, he was glad he did.  _  
_

Begrudgingly, he returned to his desk, gathered up the quizzes, packed his bag, and headed out to go find MJ for lunch.

***

  
“I just don’t get it,” Peter said, mouth full of pasta. Five quizzes were spread out in front of him—he marked them with his right hand and ate with his left. He had the hood of his jacket pulled up over his head. “Why does he hate me so much?”  


“You know you can do one thing at a time, right?” MJ asked, raising an eyebrow and taking a sip of her latte. Peter groaned.   


“Apparently not, according to him! I wasn’t paying attention to his stupid lecture while I was grading quizzes and he called me out for it! Of course I wasn’t paying attention! I've learned all of this already! I’m the fucking TA!”   


“And you have no idea why he’s on your ass? Did you, like, accidentally offend him at the beginning of the semester of something?” MJ asked. Peter shook his head.   


“He was nice at first, but then he started getting meaner and meaner. He’s—” Peter grimaced— “ _ charming _ enough to where I thought it was a joke at first, but it just kept getting worse. I don’t get it.”   


“You’re sure he doesn’t just have a really shitty sense of humor?”   


“I mean, maybe?” Peter said helplessly. “I don’t know. I just want to TA for Dr. Stark instead. He's always really nice to me, and he apparently wrote me a letter of rec good enough to get into our grad program, so that's gotta mean something.”   


MJ shrugged. “Maybe Beck will get better. Just keep pushing back—he’ll get the idea that you can’t be messed with so easily. Then he’ll back off.”   


Peter considered this for a second, then nodded. “Alright, yeah. I’ll try that—pushing back.” Another pause. “How do I do that, exactly?”    


“Oh my God, Peter,” MJ groaned. “Just be as sassy and annoying with him as possible. He’ll do anything to get you to shut up, so he’ll stop messing with you.”   


Peter tilted his head to the side. That could work. That could actually work.    


“You’re a genius,” Peter said, stuffing more pasta into his mouth. MJ spread her hands. Of course she was. 

***

Peter walked into Beck’s office at 4:55PM. The man had left his door open—likely for the few curious students who came to office hours, and even more likely to see exactly when Peter would get there. 

“Here’s your stupid quizzes,” Peter said, sitting down on the plush chairs in front of Beck’s desk and dropping the papers onto the surface in front of him. “Right on time.”

“It took you—” Beck sighed and looked at his watch,  _ just _ to be an asshole, Peter tried so hard not to ball his fists at that—“almost four hours to grade ten quizzes? I thought you were almost done, Parker.” 

Peter shrugged, crossing his arms. “You said I was slow, so I was just giving you what you expected. Why overwork myself for no reason?” 

“ _ Overwork yourself _ ?” Beck asked with an incredulous laugh. “God, Parker, you’re a  _ brat _ .” 

Peter stiffened immediately. Whatever composure or even upper-hand he had was obliterated.  _ What? _

“What?” he asked eloquently. 

“Oh, what, now you don’t want to overwork yourself with listening, either? I said—” Beck leaned forward in his chair, and fuck, the beard and the  _ jawline _ made him look  _ powerful _ , and Peter almost wanted to lean back in response, to whimper at him, and where the fuck did  _ that  _ come from—“you’re a brat.”    


“I don’t, I don’t think I am,” Peter said, but his voice was a little too weak to be defiant, and his cheeks felt pinker by the second. What the fuck was wrong with him? 

“No,” Beck said, a smirk barely tugging at his—oh, fuck,  _ pretty _ —lips as he shook his head, “I think you just don’t want me to tell you why.” 

_ What?  _

“Whatever,” Peter said with a scoff. He hurried to get out of his seat. “I’m leaving. Email me if you want anything worth my time.” 

He didn’t look back at Beck, who leaned back in his seat and smirked even wider, as he almost bolted from the office.  _ Gender neutral bathroom down the hall _ , Peter thought to himself. He came to the triangle-marked door, pushed it open, and locked himself in. 

_ Oh, fuck _ , he thought.  _ Has it really been that long? My terrible, horrible professor called me a brat and now I can’t stop thinking— _

Peter shivered. 

He’d always thought Beck was attractive. Who didn’t? That was… that must be a given. But it wasn’t a  _ problem _ until now; all of his insults had been solely insulting instead of—instead of— 

“Oh God, he’s so hot,” Peter whimpered, sticking his face in his hands. He should really splash some cold water on his face, or something, anything to make it less embarrassing. “Pushing back made it  _ so much worse _ .” 

***

At 5PM, Quentin should have closed his office door behind him on his way out to the staff parking lot, gone home to Edith (who was definitely going to start screaming for food in about fifteen minutes, the little asshole), and spent the rest of the night working or going to the gym or generally doing something more productive that staying late in his office thinking about Peter Parker. 

But Peter Parker did have a knack for making things more interesting. Quentin smiled to himself. After Peter left, he shut the door to his office and locked it. He was only entering in quiz grades, but he didn’t want any interruptions. This reverie was a consuming one.

The kid was intelligent—really intelligent, if Quentin was being honest, it was almost impressive—and generally, he’d heard, well-behaved. Respectful to his teachers. Fast worker (which was true; Peter worked faster than any TA he’d ever had, not that he needed to know that). _Great,_ Beck thought, when he heard Peter’d been assigned to him. _Less problems for me._

When he first met the kid, though, all that went out the door. There was something about him—the big, innocent brown eyes, the curly hair that bounced when he walked, the way he so obviously wanted to please Beck, and everyone else—that made Quentin want to push, and poke, and prod at Peter, to see all his little reactions and annoyances. He loved it; sometimes, he even craved it. Until today, in his office, he’d had no idea why that was. 

He was surprised it took him so long. Now, he could see the whole picture clearly: underneath the perfect, seamless surface of star-student Peter Parker was a bratty little kid just waiting to act out, to talk back. Waiting for someone to reprimand him. 

If Quentin was being honest with himself, he wanted that person to be him. 

_ Oh, Peter _ , he thought.  _ We’ll get there. _

***

When Peter got back to their apartment, he’d never been more relieved that Ned had a three-hour night class on Wednesdays. He kicked off his shoes and left them to the side of the door, locked the door behind him, and flung himself down into his surprisingly comfortable desk chair.   


_ Brat _ . The word circled his head ceaselessly. How was he ever supposed to be near Beck again, especially— _ fuck _ —alone? Especially when Beck specifically told Peter at the beginning of the year that he usually asked for help grading midterms, which were less than two weeks from now. Fuck. All that time alone with a man he simultaneously couldn’t stand and couldn’t get out of his head.   


Peter gripped the arms of the chair and tried not to whimper again.   


_ Brat _ .   


When he was by himself like this, he couldn’t deny it: there was some truth to the word. Not all the time, of course; Peter tried his best to be polite to everyone he came across. But there was something about misbehaving for Professor Beck, something about being disobedient and snarking back at his insults and being bad  _ on purpose _ —   


He covered his mouth with one hand, fearing whatever noise might come out, and leaned his head back into the chair.   


He couldn’t escape the image that came to mind: the two of them in Beck’s office, Peter straddling Beck’s lap while the older man gripped Peter’s thighs. Peter pressing both hands into his (broad, toned,  _ masculine _ ) chest, trying not to squirm.  _ You’re such a brat, Peter _ , Beck would say, kissing his neck, his collarbone.  _ Can’t believe nobody but me has noticed. _ Then Peter would say, _ I guess it’s up to you to punish me, then, sir _ , and— 

Peter stopped his thoughts forcefully, and his head reeled like he just hit the brakes after going a hundred miles per hour.  _ I am not going to jerk off to a man fifteen years older than me calling me a brat, no matter how hot he is, and no matter how much I want to. _

Peter groaned out loud. Shakily, he grabbed his towel and his pajamas. He needed a cold shower, and he needed Quentin Beck out of his brain immediately. 

(Apparently, his brain didn’t agree. That night, he dreamt fitfully of broad shoulders and big hands, scratchy beards and deep voices whispering in his ear.)

***

Luckily for Peter, he didn’t see or hear from Beck until the next class period, Friday at noon.   


Unluckily for Peter, two days seemed too soon. There was a bathroom outside of the lecture hall, over by the stairwell—if he took a little longer washing his hands than usual, and took the longest possible route to the door, well, who could blame him?    


He entered the room only a minute before class started, as opposed to getting there as soon as the previous one ended. Peter tried sneaking down the stairs, going as quickly and quietly as possible all the way to the front row, and he really should have known that wouldn’t be an option —    


“Mr. Parker,” Beck greeted warmly once he reached the last step. His smile was insufferable. Peter felt the phantom itch of Beck’s beard on his skin,  _ fuck _ _ — _ “I thought you’d be late. Still trying not to overwork yourself?“   


“My class before this ran late,” Peter mumbled, taking his seat in the front row, right in front of Beck’s podium. God, why couldn’t he be sick or something?   


“Oh, that’s weird. It’s never gone late before,” Beck said, mockingly curious. He shrugged. Why did he like to torment Peter so much? “Well, guess there’s a first time for everything, isn’t that right, Peter?”   


He didn’t respond, only crossed his arms and looked at the giant periodic table poster on the other side of the room. Beck started class shortly after. They got through almost the entire hour without any public humiliation stunts, and Peter felt relieved, if a bit suspicious. He watched every second on the clock tick by, until only three minutes were left.    


He was about to sit his bag in his lap, ready to bolt as soon as Beck stopped talking, when the professor asked, “Peter?”    


Reluctantly, Peter held back a grimace and turned his head to face Beck, who looked innocent as could be.    


“Would you mind helping me pass back quizzes?”    


Of fucking course he couldn’t get through the whole period untouched. He nodded and met Beck at the table at the front of the room, where he had the papers sorted by last names. Beck leaned his head down to whisper to Peter, “Unless it’s too much work for you, you can have N-Z.”    


“ _ You’re _ too much work,” Peter said weakly, grabbing the stack of papers from Beck, who only laughed.    


“Come to me for last names A-M, and Peter for last names N-Z,” he announced to the class. “We’ll answer questions about grades over email and at office hours.” 

Once they were finished handing out the quizzes and Peter was finally, finally on his way out, Beck said, “by the way, Peter.” He sighed through his nose. Of course Beck didn’t have a problem with Peter staying late if it benefitted him.

“Aren’t you done with me yet?” he asked, crossing his arms with a frown.   


“Aw, so eager to leave, huh? I’d almost think you didn’t like me,” Beck said, mimicking his pout.   


“What do you want,  _ Dr _ . Beck?”   


Peter might’ve been imagining things, but he thought he saw a look cross Beck’s face when he said “doctor.” A…  _ look _ look. Was it… not just him? It was gone before Peter could tell.   


“I’ll need to talk to you about midterm questions after your review session on Thursday. I have all of my material written out, but I’m planning on adding stuff that covers the questions they ask you.”   


“I—” Peter stopped himself, shaking his head in confusion. “Why?”   


“Why what?”   


“Why would you do that?” Peter asked. “If they only understand a concept by Thursday night, it’s unfair to have them internalize it by Monday, especially if I’m the one explaining it. They didn’t get it the first time you taught it, and I understand sometimes they need an explanation from a different point of view, but I’m still only your TA. That’s kind of a dick move.” Peter winced at himself.  _ Only your TA _ . Way to give him ammunition.    


“Well,” Beck said, turning away from Peter to slide his laptop into his bag, “guess that means you better do a good job then, kid.”   


“Wait, no, Dr. Beck,” Peter said, genuine this time. Beck paused. The thought of these barely-college kids failing a midterm because he gave their stupid professor all the hardest questions… Peter held back a shudder. He couldn’t handle it if that was his fault. “What if… what if those questions were all extra credit? That way students aren’t punished for not immediately internalizing concepts they just got and the kids who went above and beyond by coming to the review session get rewarded by knowing the extra credit questions ahead of time. I think that’s fair.”   


Beck appeared to think about this, flicking his eyes to the side and tilting his head just a bit as Peter waited. Fuck, he was almost bouncing on his heels in anticipation of Beck’s answer.   


“You know what, Peter? That is a good idea,” Beck said, and Peter nearly  _ melted _ . After weeks,  _ months _ of practically being bullied by Professor Beck, and a notably tense previous meeting, the compliment almost sent shudders down his spine. Beck slung his bag over his shoulder and flashed a pretty smile at Peter. “Maybe you are as smart as everybody says.”

And Peter could not handle that, so instead he nodded quickly and headed up the stairs, finally,  _ finally _ making his escape. But just before he got to the last one, Beck called, “Peter.” He winced—God, he needed to stop doing that—and turned around. “Have a good weekend, okay?”   


If he wasn’t liquid already, he was now a puddle on the floor.   


“Y-you too,” he squeaked, turning back and bolting out of the room.

***

“Is it weird to like someone even though they’re mean to you sometimes?” Peter asked. He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of an open box of pizza. “Because… I think I’m getting a crush on somebody.”   


Ned thought about it for a minute. “You sure it’s not just a kink thing? It might be a weird kink thing. Not like a real-actual crush.” He paused. “Wait, fuck, are you into Flash? That kid from the engineering department?”   


“What? No,” Peter said, shaking his head. Definitely not Flash. “I’m… that part doesn’t matter. I don’t know. Maybe it’s not a crush, but I definitely feel  _ something _ .”   


“So it is a kink thing?”   


“No!” Peter said miserably.  _ I have a crush on my professor  _ _ because _ _ even though he bullies me, because sometimes he’s really nice and all the time he is just so fucking hot,  _ Peter thought _. Just say it. _ “It’s… do you think he’s joking, or do you think he’s being serious and he’s actually mean?”   


“Well, what does he say?”   


_ Fuck _ , Peter thought.   


“He likes to say things like ‘Aren’t you supposed to be a genius?’ and ‘I thought you were a prodigy’ and stuff like that. Which. I don’t care for that part. But the other day…” Peter shivered.   


“The other day…?”   


Peter sighed. “The other day, he called me a  _ brat, _ and suddenly it didn’t seem very mean any more. Like, he said it, and then I was like  _ I don’t think I’m a brat _ , and then he was like  _ No I think you just don’t want me to tell you why I’m right  _ and I just. Hhhh.”   


“Dude,” Ned said with the utmost seriousness. “He’s tryna _fuck_.”   


“You think so? Like actually?”   


“No shit, actually! Who says something like that non-sexually?”   


“I don’t know,” Peter groaned. “That’s why I’m not sure.”   


“Dude.” Ned shook his head. “Look, just… try doing it back. Like play into it, you know? Be like,  _ Oh, yeah, I’m totally a brat, what are you gonna do about it _ —”   


“ _ Stop _ .”

***

Ned must have breathed confidence into him, because Peter walked into lecture on Monday in his tightest, most form-fitting button up, fully prepared to flirt his ass off. If this was his life, so be it—he’d lean into it, even if it was nerve-racking, because Professor Beck was young and hot and why  _ not _ —   


(Well, there were in fact several reasons why fucking the professor he worked directly under (ha) wasn’t a great idea, but he didn’t care to think about those when every little physical detail of Beck’s had been driving him crazy for a week.)   


He took the stairs delicately, trying his best to appear attractive at all times—chin held high enough to be flattering, but low enough to bashful, books effortlessly under his arms. Once he reached the bottom of the stairs, he sat delicately, hands in his lap. Beck still wasn’t looking at him.    


“Hey, Dr. Beck,” Peter said with a charming smile. Yeah, that was good. Beck liked it when he used the  _ doctor _ card.    


Beck stood at his podium like usual, typing something on his computer. When he heard Peter’s voice, he glanced over briefly. “Afternoon, Mr. Parker. Is there something you wanted?”    


_ Oh, so we’re back to this? _ “Um, no, just wanted to say hi!”    


“Hi.”    


Silence. Only the sound of typing and the low hum of students’ conversations before the class period started. Peter fidgeted before crossing his arms.    


“Um, is there—” Beck raised an eyebrow, but didn’t even  _ bother _ looking at him, what was he doing wrong—“hi, sorry, is there anything specific you wanted me to do during lecture?”    


That got Professor Beck to look up, but it wasn’t the type of look Peter wanted. This was less  _ No, I want to do you, though _ and more  _ If you interrupt me again I will kick you out of my class.  _ _  
_

“Take notes,” he said finally.    


“Oh,” Peter said. “Alright.”   


_ So much for that, _ he thought miserably. There had to be a pattern! Someone as smart as Beck—a professor, with a PhD and years of experience—didn’t act erratically, without reason. There had to be a pattern, or Peter couldn’t take it. He needed to find a way to get Beck’s attention.   


Beck started class in a few moments, and Peter promptly zoned out to focus on the problem at hand. He felt guilty, almost, for not paying attention after Beck specifically told him to take notes, but he knew the concepts Beck was teaching and the slides would be posted at a later time.   


He thought back to the first time he’d noticed Beck’s attention—his office on Wednesday, the catalyst for this whole obsession in the first place. He was being a  _ brat _ , according to Beck; was that what got him interested?   


Peter acting out, Peter being something to tame and then control, Peter being obedient for everyone except Beck…   


Or was it Friday’s incident? The switch in Beck’s behavior towards him was on Peter’s mind relentlessly, hazy and confusing. But now he concentrated on every movement from that conversation.   


Beck had started off the class teasing him, then continued to do so, which in turn annoyed Peter and caused him to talk back. Then, Beck had told him to snitch out which concepts their students were struggling with and put them on the midterm—which, come on, Beck had to know Peter would object to that! So of course he begged for Beck to change his mind, calling himself “only a TA”…   


_ Oh _ .   


Maybe Beck did like when he was bratty, if it meant he eventually got to put Peter in his place.   


Peter shifted in his seat. So… so Beck didn’t want him well-behaved all the time, apparently. No, he only wanted Peter to behave if he  _ made _ Peter behave. But even then, why was Beck outright ignoring him now?   


Peter bit his lip in thought.    


Well.    


He’d have to give Beck no way to ignore him, then.

***

It was 11:59AM on Wednesday, and Peter leaned against a wall outside the lecture hall with crossed arms, biting his lip in thought. Students glanced at him as they pushed their way in through the door. Peter paid them no attention; he had a bigger problem.    


He’d never been late to a class in his life—well, not in any way that counted, at least—and the one time he went against that rule was, of course, to seduce a teacher. 

That didn’t even make sense! What professor was into a student that was late to their classes? That disrespected them!   


Peter bit down hard on his lip, and winced a little at the slowly rising blood that came from the wound.    


He breathed in and reconsidered. Beck liked that Peter would stand up to him—that despite all appearances otherwise, Peter wasn’t a picture-perfect student, a cookie-cutter pushover, whatever, but somebody that could challenge Beck.    


At least, that’s what Peter thought it was. It had to be. God, Beck was so fucking attractive, it hurt his head.   


He checked the time. 12:02PM.    


Perfect.    


Peter pushed himself off of the wall, adjusting his flannel—it fit him too big, and he rolled the sleeves loosely. He didn’t want to look put-together, like Monday. He wanted to look like he could be pulled apart.    


Another late student hurried past him and through the door. Peter ran a hand through his curls, breathed out. He imagined the angry look on Beck’s face when he walked in late—the star-student, the well-behaved department favorite deliberately disobeying him. He smiled to himself.    


Peter pushed the door open and felt one-hundred-something eyes flock to him. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder, and he kept a bored expression on his face as he paused at the top of the stairs. Beck locked eyes with him, and he slowly began to descend the stairs.    


“Parker,” Beck said, stern, preceded by a small cough. The falter was small but enough for Peter to notice—enough for Peter to hold onto. “Thank you for interrupting my lecture. I appreciate it greatly.”   


“You’re welcome,” Peter said softly with a small smirk as he reached the bottom of the stairs. It was quiet enough that only Beck could hear him. Good. Beck’s stare seemed like it could burn him alive. Peter took his seat.   


“As I was saying,” Beck said, tearing his eyes away from Peter, who leaned back and kicked his feet out in front of him. “As you know, Peter will be hosting a review session tomorrow night from 6PM-8PM for the midterm exam on Monday. Attendance isn’t mandatory, but I think you’ll find it rewarding. If you go, be  _ on time _ .”   


Peter smirked. He couldn’t respond to Beck’s passive-aggressive comments during lecture—well, not verbally, anyways. Instead, he tipped his head back slightly,  exposing the smooth, pale skin of his neck, letting his curls move freely with the motion. Just enough for Beck to notice. He felt lucky, suddenly, that his row was only three seats, and no one ever sat next to him—now, Beck glanced over at him as he moved onto the actual class material.

He bit his bottom lip, slowly letting go of it with his teeth. Beck didn’t react, at least not physically, but Peter hoped the flash of  _ something  _ (lust? anger?) he saw in Beck’s eyes was real. Beck tore his gaze away from Peter, but Peter wouldn’t look away; he wanted Beck to feel Peter’s eyes on him. He wanted Beck to be frustrated with his own inaction. 

The lecture went on like that for thirty or so minutes—Peter looking at Beck with lidded eyes, or dragging his fingers through his hair, Beck’s jaw tightening in response or his hand ever so slightly tightening its grip on the podium. To anyone else, it was probably unnoticeable. Good. That was what Peter wanted; no more Beck calling him out in front of the class, just silently suffering while he lectured. 

Well. Not completely silent. 

“Peter,” Beck said at the thirty-five minute mark. It startled Peter—he sat up quickly, then immediately tried to put back on his dismissive, disobedient persona. He raised an eyebrow at Beck. “You said you made a Kahoot for today, right?” 

“Yup.” 

Beck tilted his microphone away from himself. “You wanna come set that up, or…?” 

Wordlessly, Peter got to his feet. Beck stepped to the side of the podium as the class chattered happily, covering the sounds of their conversation. Kahoot was always a good distraction—Peter cursed himself for forgetting that was today. Beck clicked the microphone off completely, keeping one hand on the podium as he faced Peter.    


“You’re really going for it today, huh? Late, inattentive, forgetful…” Beck clicked his tongue, keeping his voice in a low hush. Peter resisted the urge to shiver. “Something’s gotten into you, Parker. Where’s the star student?”    


Peter typed in his password for the website, then scrolled to find his review for optics—so far, the class’s collective worst subject. “Well, you know. Didn’t want to overwork myself.”   


“Oh, I see. Am I too much for you?” Beck asked, faux innocent, with a smirk. He turned to the class. “Alright, the code’s on screen. Pull out your phones, laptops, you know the drill. And hurry up, we only have twelve minutes.”   


Loud, upbeat music from the game played as the students typed in their nicknames. Beck announced some every twenty seconds or so, waiting for close to the class’s total population to register before they started. (Peter noted with a scrunched nose that a solid amount were about Beck’s looks, and a handful were just ‘Quentin’.)  
They had twenty seconds to answer each question—twenty seconds for Beck to be silent in between rounds was twenty too long. He could annoy Peter in five.  


“You didn’t answer my question,” Beck said, after he finished reading the prompt on screen. Peter glanced at the question.   


“The answer’s B,” he said, nonchalantly. He was surprised when Beck actually laughed, despite the eye roll that came with it. Before he got the chance to respond, Beck read out the results. Peter clicked the next question when he finished. Twenty more seconds.   


“I’m waiting, Peter,” Beck said, lazily flicking his eyes over Peter’s face. God, Peter hated him.   


“You’re not too much for me,” Peter said finally. He turned his head to look Beck in the eyes, challenging, taunting. “You’re hardly enough.”   


Beck’s jaw tightened again, and Peter couldn’t tell if he was angry or impressed or just… into it. Probably all three.   


“You really are a brat, aren’t you?” Beck murmured. Peter’s face burned—really? Here? Now? “Oh, time’s up! Let’s see—wow, 72% of you got that one right! Not bad. B was close, but not quite right. ItsEggTime is still in 1st. Is that a joke I don’t get?”   


Peter clicked the next question and tried desperately not to let Beck’s  _ stupid  _ comment get to him. It wouldn’t be half as bad if it didn’t turn him on so much.   


“Aw, what? Nothing to say, Parker?” Beck asked, as soon as the music picked back up. Peter couldn’t help it—the defiant, bored look he had on earlier started to melt. He held fast. “That’s too bad. It’s so fun when you protest, like you don’t know I’m right.”   


Peter bit his lip in response. It must have been red from how much he’d been playing with it today. Maybe that was good—all the more enticing. He wished Beck would stop fucking teasing him and  _ do something _ .   


The answers popped up on screen, and Beck did his usual commentary. When Peter clicked the next question, he sighed in relief. Beck looked over at him with a frown.   


“Last question,” Peter said, almost gleefully. It was torture, being in front of everyone, with Beck right there and Peter unable to do anything about it. “Can’t wait!”   


“For now,” Beck said with a shrug. His voice bordered on sing-song, and he placed a strong—God, too strong for a fucking professor—hand on Peter’s shoulder.  “Maybe I’m  _ hardly enough for you  _ right now, but there’s still a whole semester left, honey.”   


Holy shit.   


If Peter hadn’t been holding onto the podium for dear life right then, his legs would have given out. And if they weren’t in front of one hundred college freshmen, well, he’d be on his knees for a different reason. Beck took his hand off.   


Peter wanted to curse himself, but he couldn’t. Whatever game they were playing just then, Beck won. Maybe Peter never stood a chance.   


By the time Beck was done with his comments on the final round, it was 12:50, and after a brief reminder about Peter’s review session, he dismissed the class.   


Peter left the podium without a word, grabbing his backpack up from his seat and slinging it over his shoulder. God, Beck was going to give him a heart attack.  _ There’s still a whole semester left, honey.  _ Even now, he could feel Beck’s eyes on him. Peter turned around.   


“Good luck on your review session, Peter,” Beck said, sickly sweet. “Don’t disappoint me.”   


“Whatever,” Peter said, and turned to bolt up the stairs.

  
***

In the midst of all his fretting about Beck, Peter had the unfortunate realization that he was, in fact, a student, which meant he did, in fact, have his own midterms to study for. Sure, Beck gave his test towards the beginning of midterms season, and just about all of his were near the end, but he was knee deep in an astrophysics course that should've been done in undergrad, and those weren’t really going to study for themselves, were they?   


_ I’m sick of black holes, I’m sick of numbers, I’m sick of formulas _ , Peter thought, frowning as he thumbed through his textbook. The library was silent around him, yet still carried the frenetic energy of hundreds of stressed college kids.  _ Start from the radial geodesic equation for the Schwarzschild metric, blah blah blah, why did I even take this stupid class—  _ _  
_

Peter looked forward to his laptop, trying to enlarge the study guide document his professor had emailed out, and of course he closed it instead. Of course.   
He sighed. He’d been in the library for four hours already, anyways, and he needed to eat before his review session. Still, he only had a handful of problems left to work through. He opened up his email account to re-find the study guide.   


He squinted at his computer.  **_1 unread email from Quentin Beck. Subject: Review Session._ ** Peter’s life knew absolutely no peace.    


He double clicked the email. 

_ Hey Peter, _

_ Good luck with your review session tonight. Remember what I told you about conceptual questions. Who am I kidding — a brilliant, radiant academic talent like yourself will do just fine. See you in class tomorrow! _

_ Dr. Beck _

Peter blinked.    


Did Beck’s email get hacked, or...?    


He looked over the email again, and again, wondering if he lost the ability to read real words in the midst of the dense equations. But the words refused to change.   
Beck didn’t email him often, and when he did it was to remind him of things, not to... be nice. Especially not compliments like that. And the word choice was strange. Peter repeated the phrase to himself. Brilliant, radiant academic talent.   


**B** rilliant,  **r** adiant  **a** cademic  **t** alent.    


Motherfucker.    


Beck found a way to call him a brat over email without getting caught or seeming suspicious—after all, who would look at that email and see anything other than an encouraging mentor and his prodigy? It was almost heart-warming.    


Yeah, right.    


Frustrated, Peter closed his laptop. He’d do the problems later—Beck had officially derailed him. 

***

  
The review session came and went without many problems—after all, Beck wasn’t there to distract him, and all he had to do was read from the slides and explain concepts when necessary. Fine. Easy.  


What wasn’t easy was the looming threat of being alone with Beck in his office on Friday.   


Friday evening. In his office. In a building that would mostly be empty, with a door that locked. After Beck had spent all week messing with him. Teasing him.   


Fuck, he didn’t know whether to be nervous or grateful, but first, he was going to be angry.   


It was 11:52AM on the dot when Peter stormed into class on Friday, taking the stairs quicker than any person should have, fueled by vindictive rage. Beck was already there—good. He looked up when Peter reached the bottom steps, but before he could make some stupid remark, Peter stopped in front of the podium.   


“You!” he said in a hushed voice, pointing at Beck. He tried not to make a scene for the few students present. The professor raised his eyebrows. “Brilliant, radiant academic talent? Really?”   


“You’re mad about a compliment?” Beck asked innocently. Peter clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ground together. “Wow, Peter, you really are hard to please.”   


“That’s not what I mean,” Peter said through gritted teeth, “and you know it.”   


Beck smiled with hooded eyes. “Oh, I promise you, I meant every  _ letter _ .”   


Peter groaned despite the heat crawling up his cheeks and threw his hands down to the side. No. Not right now. Not in front of everyone. He sat down, arms crossed, and wished it could be 12:50.   


Beck was still smiling when he faced Peter at the front of the room. “Hey, Pete,” he said softly, and wow, how was  _ Pete _ in that fucking voice worse than  _ kid _ or  _ brat _ or even  _ honey _ ? Reluctantly, Peter looked up. “My office at 5, remember?”   


_ Oh, how could he forget? _ Peter nodded grimly.


	2. 2

At 4:25PM, Peter had stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom for ten minutes, scrutinizing every hair on his head, gently moving one curl and then another then putting them back all over again. He decided against his tightest button-up, but kept the top few buttons undone, and slid on his tightest skinny jeans. He pressed his hands to his thighs, closed his eyes, and breathed.   
  


It was a fifteen-minute bus ride to the physics department building from here. With a parting glance at the mirror Peter tugged at his shirt collar, slipped on a jacket, grabbed his backpack and went to go meet his fate in Dr. Beck’s office.   
  


Once he got to school, the five-minute walk was mostly downhill, which was nice—campus seemed to be built on a hill, and a long sloping path lined with leafy trees lead him almost directly to the physics department from his bus stop. The wind tickled his skin as he walked. Peter balled his fists, clenching and unclenching them.   


_ Pete. Honey. Brat. _ And worst of all, the strong hand on his shoulder, burned into his memory.    


It was torture.   


***

“So, how are you feeling, Aubrey? Ready for the test?” Beck asked with a calm smile. 4:56PM—office hours ended in four minutes. Normally he wouldn’t mind staying a little late. Normally, though, he didn’t have an increasingly frustrated Peter Parker coming to pay him a visit.    
  


“Good, mostly,” the girl said hurriedly, pushing her glasses up on her nose, “but there is one question I have left about oscillations—”    
  


But she was interrupted by Peter appearing in the doorway. Aubrey turned around, and while she wasn’t looking, Beck smirked at Peter.    
  


Maybe he was more frustrated than Beck thought.   
  


His button-up was a soft, light blue, with a darker blue jacket over it and obscenely tight black skinny jeans. Beck leaned back slightly in his chair, tapping the pen he used to draw out example diagrams for Aubrey to his lips.    


Fuck, the kid was incredible.    


“Oh, hi, Peter,” Aubrey said, interrupting herself. Peter smiled and waved at the girl.   


“Yeah, hi,  _ Pete _ ,” Beck said, plastering on a pleasant smile over his smirk. Peter’s shoulders tensed at the nickname. “Go ahead and set your stuff down. Aubrey and I will only be a minute.”    


Peter kept up his smile until the girl turned around, before it immediately turned into a frown with narrowed eyes. Beck had to stifle a laugh.    


“Sure,” Peter said, keeping up his upbeat tone. “Take your time.”    


Aubrey continued with her question, and Beck commended himself for listening so well considering the circumstances he found himself under. As soon as Peter sat his bag on the chair next to Aubrey’s, he started looking around the bookshelves in Beck’s office.    


Beck only stole glances when he could, which wasn’t very often; though it didn’t exactly benefit him in the moment, he was glad Aubrey was such an attentive student.    


He turned all of his attention to the girl, hoping that this really was the last problem she had. Even without looking, he could feel Peter scrutinizing his office—and, well, it was only fair that he be able to respond. After a few more lines of equations, Aubrey seemed to be settled.   


“Okay,” the girl said cautiously. “I think I’m good now.”   


“Glad to hear it,” Beck said with a smile, leaning back in his chair. “Good luck studying, okay? We’ll see you Monday at noon.”   


“Thanks, Dr. Beck,” she said, gathering up the papers she’d laid out on his desk. She stuffed them in her bag and stood up. “Bye, Peter. Have a good weekend.”   


“You too! Bye!” Peter called with a wave. Beck waved, too—but he swung his head over to look at Peter. As soon as Aubrey was gone, his TA’s face dropped. He frowned at Beck’s attention. “What?”   


Beck nodded to Peter’s hands. In them, he held a snowglobe Beck kept on one of his bookshelves—encased in it was a miniature Empire State building. Peter looked down at it.   


“Why are you touching my snow globe, Parker? It’s priceless.”   


“Why do you have a weird touristy snowglobe of the Empire State building, Beck?” Peter asked. Wow,  _ snarky _ . No titles or anything. Peter shook the snowglobe. “There. Probably the first time anyone’s done that in awhile.”   


Beck snorted. “Don’t assume things about my snowglobe.”   


Peter rolled his eyes, setting it back in place on the bookshelf. He moved in front of the small filing cabinet in the corner or Beck’s office, picking up a small picture frame. Beck turned in his swivel chair slowly to face him.   


“Why do you have a framed picture of a cat?” Peter asked, examining it in his hands.   


“Because Edith is an angel, and also  _ my _ cat,” Beck said, grinning at Peter’s confused face. “You’re just full of assumptions today, aren’t you?”   


“You don’t seem like a cat person,” Peter said offhand, setting the frame back down.   


“What do I seem like to you, Pete?”   


He shrugged, red rising to his cheeks in a slow bloom. God, Beck couldn’t get over him in that button up. The kid was unfairly pretty, and so sensitive if you pushed in the right places. “Fish. You seem like a really uptight Betta owner.”   


Beck laughed. Peter was funny, and suprisingly accurate—he’d thought about owning fish before, but Edith had a penchant for murder, so he avoided other pets. Peter seemed almost pleased with himself as he moved onto the windowsill, and closer to Beck’s desk.   


“Succulents?” Peter asked, picking up one of the small pots. Beck raised an eyebrow.   


“You got something to say about cacti?”   


“No, I think that one’s pretty fitting,” Peter said with a small smirk. Peter Parker, the star student, the department sweetheart, mouthing off. Beck’s lips quirked up to match.   


“Brat,” he said, off-handedly. Peter frowned, setting the pot back down and crossing his arms.   


“Why do you call me that?” he asked.   


“Because it’s true,” Beck mused, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly.   


“Funny how you’re the only one who thinks that,” Peter said, rolling his eyes.   


“I know you so well, yet I’m still  _ not enough _ for you,” Beck said teasingly. Peter’s shoulders tightened.   


“Why do you like doing that so much? Being mean to me?”   


“I’m not mean to you,” Beck said, leaning forward just a bit in his chair. “I'm the only one who doesn’t fall at your feet.”   


Peter’s face burned. “They… they don’t all  _ fall at my feet _ . I’m just a good student.”   


“Sure you are. You’re brilliant,” Beck said, holding back a smirk at the way Peter’s eyes widened at that. “But do you think you’re the  _ only _ good student in our entire department?”   


“No,” he said quickly, “that’s not what I—”   


“Shh, quiet. Let me finish. You’re in a sea of great students, yet all I heard when you were assigned to me is  _ You’ll love him _ and  _ Perfect student  _ and  _ Respectful _ and what _ ever _ ,” Quentin said, surprised at his own honesty. He kept going. “Funny how quick that goes away when I don’t worship the ground you walk on.” 

“And what do you mean by that, exactly?” Peter asked cautiously. Beck grinned. 

“Oh, come on, honey,” he said lowly. “You’re spoiled. You behave if you hear those pretty words, but the second someone— _ me _ , especially—stops praising you, you start stomping your feet and throwing a tantrum. Come on, Pete. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter said, blushing, but he crossed his arms over his chest defiantly.

“Then what are you doing right now?” Beck asked, resting his chin on his hand, looking Peter up and down.

“Talking to my asshole professor who gets a kick out of fucking with me.”

“Fucking with you, hm?” Beck asked. Despite his scowl, Beck saw Peter shiver.  _ Good _ . “Close but not quite, sweetheart.”

Peter looked like he was going to combust. “Beck,” he near-whimpered. Like  _ music _ . Beck waited for Peter to continue, but nothing else followed. Then it hit him.

Oh.

For all his talking back, Peter  _ liked it _ when Beck was mean to him.

_ Oh _ .

“Peter,” Beck said, rising from his chair and facing the boy. He hoped he was getting this right, though he had relatively few doubts—on the small chance he was wrong, the rest of this semester was going to be hell, even considering Peter’s gentlest reaction. “Go close the door.”

They were trapped inside a deathly still snowglobe, until Peter decided to shake it.

Beck took a breath. Peter held his eyes for a moment, then stalked towards the door, slowly, deliberately, fists at his sides. Beck watched as he brought his hand to the doorknob, opening the door wider so he could look out into the hallway. The room was suffocating. Peter remained there for a moment, then—

He stepped back into the room, shutting the door behind him and twisting the lock shut.

Beck exhaled.

Peter could still be planning on killing him, thus explaining the locked door, but he was willing to take his chances.

***

Despite the nerves that danced around his stomach, making his skin prickle up terribly, Peter walked as confidently as he could from the door to the space behind Beck’s desk, coming to face the man. He hated how much he had to look up to meet Beck’s eyes, but oh  _ God _ , he loved it.

“You wanted to speak to me in private?” Peter asked, letting his teeth graze his bottom lip. 

Beck stepped closer to Peter, close enough to be right in front of him, toe-to-toe, and oh God, what—?

“Yeah, speaking,” Beck murmured, raising a (surprisingly gentle) hand to Peter’s perpetually-shocked face. His thumb—big hands,  _ big hands _ —grazed Peter’s cheekbone. “That’s what I wanted to do.”

Before Peter could respond, though, Beck leaned down and pressed his lips to Peter’s, bringing his other hand up to the back of Peter’s neck. At Peter’s stiffness—because what the  _ fuck _ —he pulled back, looking over the dazed look on his face with a frown.

“Was I… wrong? I’m so sor-“

Peter stood on the tips of his toes, hands wrapped around Beck’s unnecessarily  _ built _ biceps, and kissed him again, letting his mouth fall open as Beck’s hands moved from his face to grip his hips. Peter’s eyes fluttered shut.

Fuck, finally kissing him, finally getting to feel Beck’s strength for himself beyond stray touches, was going to kill him where he stood, behaving recklessly in Quentin Beck’s office.

He slipped his hands from Beck’s biceps to place one on his chest and one around the back of his neck. In response, Beck, who already towered over him as he licked into his mouth, wrapped his arms around Peter, pulling them closer together.

The world seemed to spin at a slower speed than usual, and Peter was melting in Beck’s arms. After several long moments, he pulled back to breathe, looking up at Beck with wide eyes and red lips, eyes scanning his face. Beck looked back at him with a mixture of confusion and hunger, but oh, the way his lip curled like he was seconds away from devouring Peter whole was going to  _ kill him _ . He groaned and let his head fall forward, leaning into the crook of Beck’s neck.

“It’s not fair,” Peter whined, still catching his breath from kissing Beck. He slipped his other hand down so both hands rested on Beck’s chest. “It’s so not fucking fair at all.”

He heard Beck hum in confusion above him, running one hand up and down his back. “What’s not fair, sweetheart?”

“You’re a fucking physics professor. Why do you look like a model?” Peter groaned. Beck sputtered out a laugh at that, like Peter surprised him. How the fuck could he look in a mirror every day and be surprised that Peter found him attractive?

“Oh, Parker, you’re one to talk,” Beck said. He pulled back, placing his hands on Peter’s shoulders and turning them around. The backs of Peter’s knees hit Beck’s swivel chair, and Beck pressed down until Peter was seated. Beck put one of his knees on the seat to lean towards Peter. Now he really towered over him. “It’s not fair that  _ I’m _ attractive? Look at yourself.” He tugged on the collar of Peter’s shirt. “Really? How many sizes too small is this?”

“It’s my size,” Peter mumbled, heat in his cheeks. “It’s just form-fitting.”

“Oh, and every other outfit you’ve worn to lecture has been ‘form-fitting’?”

“The flannel was loose.”

“You mean the one you wore hanging off your shoulders with a tight v-neck?” Beck asked, raising his eyebrows. He lifted his hand to run it through Peter’s hair, tugging gently. “Oh, and then stretched out like you were putting yourself on display,  _ while I was lecturing? _ ”

“Serves you right for ignoring me the class before!” Peter protested breathlessly. He slapped a hand over his mouth as soon as the words rushed out, but Beck’s smirk doubled in size. 

“Oh,” he said simply. He stopped running his fingers through Peter’s hair to tuck a loose strand behind his ear. “So you  _ were _ trying to get my attention, Pete?” 

Peter only whimpered.

“It’s okay,” Beck murmured. “You can have it.”    
  


Beck leaned down and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, but before Peter could chase after his lips, he moved to his jaw, tracing the line of it until he reached his neck. Peter bit his lip, harsh enough to sting with pain, and gripped the arms of the swivel chair. If he let his hands go to Beck’s shoulders, or his arms, or his hair… he wasn’t sure he’d be able to restrain himself.

Beck, though, kept his hands on Peter—on his face, on his shoulder, his fingers grazing his hip or twisted in his shirt collar. Every touch felt so hot, like Beck’s hands burned. Which, hey, maybe. At least that would be a better excuse for Peter’s flushed cheeks, even now, when the teasing was mostly over and—and Beck had his lips attached to the base of Peter’s neck, and fuck, it felt so good—

He couldn’t help himself. A quiet moan broke free from Peter’s scrunched-up face, and he removed one of his hands from the swivel chair to thread it through Beck’s hair.

Beck had a knee between his legs and hands that unbuttoned his shirt, mostly steady and gentle but with a slight shake that betrayed Beck’s seeming ease. He pushed Peter’s shirt open once it was unbuttoned, but otherwise left it on. Beck broke away from his neck to look down at Peter, panting softly. He ran a thumb over Peter’s collarbone. 

“This okay, Pete?” he murmured. Peter nodded, his bottom lip near quivering. Beck leaned down again to kiss him, but this time without the same fire—it seemed to be to calm Peter more than anything else, and confusingly, it worked. Beck’s thumb wandered down towards his nipple, flicking it gently, while the other hand rose to mirror its movements. Peter moaned under the touch. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re too pretty, aren’t you? Like a dream.”

He resumed kissing Peter’s neck, now harsher, sharper, intent on making a mark—or several. Peter slid his fingers through Beck’s hair, doing his best to roll his hips up against the knee Beck kept between his thighs. It worked, since Beck leaned forward to give Peter better access. Fuck, it was too much; he’d gotten used to a teasing Beck who gave him nearly nothing, but this Beck was hungry, taking everything Peter would give him. 

And Peter would give him quite a bit. Beck slipped his hand down to the button of Peter’s jeans, pulling them down his legs just enough to have access to his underwear. 

Then he slid down to his knees in front of Peter, and oh fuck, that was  _ not _ what he expected from this. 

Beck must have noticed—of course he did—because he asked with faux-innocence, “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Something bothering you?” 

“You—” Peter slipped his hand out of Beck’s hair to grip at the arms of the chair, to keep himself from squirming—“You’re too much, Beck, fuck,  _ now, in your office _ —?” 

“You want me to stop, honey?” 

“No!” 

“Thought I  _ wasn’t enough for you _ .” 

“You are, Beck, please—” 

“Because I can give you more. I can give you everything, and then keep going,” Beck said. A mischievous grin crossed his face. If he didn’t touch Peter’s cock Peter was going to die, of lust and embarrassment. Luckily, though, Beck didn’t bother pulling them down further, which made Peter somehow feel both more and less exposed.

Peter nodded, stiff but enthusiastic. Beck wrapped his hand around Peter’s cock and stroked once, twice, as if getting used to the feeling. Then he lifted it to lick a stripe up the underside, from base to tip, and Peter pressed his head back into the chair with a shaky moan. 

Beck must have taken this (as he should’ve) as a sign of encouragement: he took the tip in his mouth and sucked, releasing Peter’s cock from his hands but moving Peter’s legs over his shoulders, pulling him forward in his chair. Beck released the tip when Peter’s hands flew to his mouth to cover up a loud moan. 

“You should make noises,” Beck said, pressing his cheek to the inside of Peter’s thigh before turning his head to kiss it. Beard burn was hot enough on his face, but on his thigh it made him… quivery, but so turned on that it was hard to care. Now Beck murmured into his thigh. “The building’s new—they rebuilt it just before you must’ve started—so they sound-proofed all the offices. Scream all you want, honey, it’s just me.” 

Peter closed his eyes when he whimpered—partially because Beck’s head between his thighs was the hottest thing he’d ever seen, and partially because he knew Beck would be wearing a smug expression at the way he was breaking Peter apart. 

But a moan was punched out of his chest when Beck swallowed him down completely, and Beck had the nerve to grab his wrist and guide it to his hair. It was soft between Peter’s fingers as he combed it back from Beck’s forehead. 

“You’re the only person on Earth that could manage— _ fuck— _ to be sassy while sucking dick.” 

Beck pulled off briefly. “You’re a lot cuter when you’re too turned on to talk.” 

Beck swallowed him down again, all the way to the base, and Peter had to hand it to him: he definitely couldn’t talk after that. Everything went hazy; all Peter could feel was the warmth of Beck’s mouth, and the way his tongue traced Peter’s cock. 

He tried desperately to hold on, to be quiet despite Beck’s commands otherwise, but that only made it more difficult. Peter was a  _ good kid _ . The department angel. The sweetheart, the teacher’s pet, the kid who went to a socially dead school in undergrad to focus on his studies, the kid who hardly got into trouble and always talked his way out of it. And there he was, seated in his professor’s desk chair while said professor’s head was positioned between his legs. 

And Beck—Beck said he was the only one who could see through him, the only one who knew he wasn’t a perfect angel. And as much as Peter hated it, with Beck’s mouth wrapped around him and his hands gripping his thighs, he knew Beck was right. 

And even knowing all of that, even with the sweet shame of all of Beck’s teasing, Peter could hold on.

But when Peter looked down and saw Beck’s sharp blue eyes closed in concentration, the way spit shined as it was stretched over his mouth and— _ fuck _ —in his beard, Peter gripped Beck’s hair harder, just barely bucking his hips up into Beck’s mouth.  __

“Beck,” Peter begged, nearly a sob. “P-Please, I’m about to–” 

But Beck didn’t cease in his movements, didn’t even acknowledge Peter’s pleas beyond squeezing his thigh twice, just kept his mouth around him with a muffled moan. Peter couldn’t stop himself—with a choked-off cry, he came down Beck’s throat. 

Immediately, his head fell back into the chair, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off Beck, who swallowed it down without so much as a cough, then pulled off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was panting, and Peter looked down to see Beck, rock-hard, with his other hand wrapped around his cock. Peter’s mouth fell open–the sight was enough to make him moan quietly, bringing his fingers once again to Beck’s messy hair. 

Beck groaned, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Peter’s lower thigh. 

“Fuck,” Peter said, hoarse as though he was the one with Beck’s cock down his throat. “Quentin, come on–” 

Another groan, and pushing against his thigh, until all that was below him was Beck’s heaving breaths and the gentle press of his forehead. He felt entirely too vulnerable, but it felt… good. 

After a few moments of staggered breathing, Beck pulled back from Peter’s thigh, his hands shaking as he tucked himself back into his pants. Peter watched idly as he pulled a clump of tissues from the box on his desk and wiped the cum off his hand with a look of vague disgust. He threw it in the nearby waste bin, then leaned back against his desk, still seated on the floor. 

“So,” Beck started, still slightly out of breath, “about those midterm questions–” 

“You’ve got to be fucking  _ kidding me _ .” 

That tore a laugh out of Beck, genuine and hearty. “Calm down, kid, I’m just messing with you. Couldn’t help it.” 

“Thank fuck,” Peter said with a sigh of relief. He looked down at his hands–he didn’t want to see Beck’s face when he asked, “Do… do you want to come up here and stop sitting on the floor?” 

“No, I’m good on the floor,” Beck said, leaning his head back against the desk. “It’s more fitting, since I have to consider why I just blew a grad student in my office.” 

Peter frowned at that. “Have you…  _ not _ done this before?” 

Beck frowned in return as he lifted his head back up, more confused than offended. “Do I come off as someone who makes a habit of blowing grad students in my office?” 

“I mean, not  _ necessarily _ , but I didn’t expect to be the exception to any rules,” he said softly, already regretting the admission. Fuck, why did he have to keep doing that?

“This might sound cliché, Parker, but I wouldn’t tease you so much if I didn’t at least sort of like you,” Beck said, adding with a smirk, “even if you are a massive brat.” 

Peter sat in stunned silence. 

“What?” Beck asked. “Too much?” 

“I’m just… stunned that, even being nice, you’re able to be a massive d-bag.” Beck flipped him off. “What, am I  _ wrong _ ?” 

“I have a cat, Peter,” Beck said, closing his eyes as his head fell back once more. “I’m  _ sensitive _ .” 

****

Peter had a weekend full of fitful dreams of Beck’s mouth and intense,  _ intense _ desires that lead to this moment: standing in front of their lecture hall, wearing a tight v-neck that he now knew drove Beck crazy, debating whether or not he should just never return to Beck’s class again and drop out of his program entirely. 

(The rest of Friday night had gone surprisingly well, for them—their normal teasing returned, though with slightly softer edges, as they discussed the questions Peter had been asked at his review session. He even helped Beck write the test-version of those questions. Then, when it was around eight– _ how had they managed to stay two hours later than intended _ –and Peter realized he didn’t have any great desire to be on a bus later than that, he and Beck cleaned themselves up as best as possible. Beck even walked him to his stop–though his excuse was that it was on the way to his parking spot, he still winked when he said  _ Have a good weekend, Mr. Parker. _ ) 

It went well, but that never stopped Beck from being a shithead before.

  
Peter shook his head at himself. No, he wouldn’t let his anxieties about Beck get to him. At 11:54am, he pushed open the door. The class was nearly full despite the early time. Peter squinted at the milling students until he realized that today was midterm day. He frowned.

But when he looked down the stairs, Beck was already watching him. He looked particularly and annoyingly handsome today; blue always made him look even more frustratingly attractive than usual. Peter couldn’t help it—his face heated even as he made his way down the stairs, and he wondered what, if anything, would change between them.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he went to sit in the front row like normal, but Beck motioned him over to the podium.

“Mr. Parker,” he greeted, stiff and seemingly unaffected. Peter’s stomach dropped, until Beck murmured, “you really do love to torture me, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Dr. Beck,” Peter replied softly, just to watch the way Beck’s pupils dilated.

“Brat,” he mumbled, taking his eyes off Peter to walk over to the table at the front of the lecture hall stacked with a pile of tests. Peter followed, biting back the smile that pulled at his lips. At a normal volume, Beck said, “You’re helping me administer the test. We’ll start passing out tests now until about 12:03, I’ll go over the rules, and then you’ll stay up at the table with me to help check IDs when students turn their tests in. Occasionally we’ll get up and walk around to make sure everyone’s honest, but this is a pretty small lecture hall, so we’ll mostly just be up at the front. Got it?”

Peter’s eyes widened. The whole class. Up at the front of the hall. With Beck. Where he could say as many terrible, incredible things as he wanted, only stopped by students approaching, which, knowing the size of the midterm and their reluctance to ask questions, wouldn’t happen until at least thirty minutes into the test.

“Got it,” he said with a stiff nod. Beck searched his face for a moment, and Peter swore he saw a flash of mischief in his eyes.

“Something wrong? Questions?” Beck asked. Peter hated him so, so much.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Peter said through gritted teeth. He grabbed a stack of tests off the table. “I’ll start on the right side of the room.”

For the most part, passing out tests was a welcome distraction, but true to Beck’s word, it only lasted until about 12:03–empty seats already had tests on them, so he didn’t even need to wait for later students to come in, only to collect extra tests once the test had started. Fuck. He really, really didn’t want to go back down there.

He walked up and down the rows as Beck explained the rules—the structure of the test, the time constraints, the ID card policy—to all of the students, checking if everyone had their tests but mostly just avoiding his fate. He might wear tight clothing or try to look  _ appealing _ while Beck was lecturing, and sometimes it worked well, but every time, regardless, Beck had the upper hand.

And as much as it embarrassed him, the darkest parts of Peter’s brain were so excited he could barely stand it.

Beck finally finished his rules, wishing everyone good luck, and the sound of a hundred rustling pages and nervous pencils filled the hall with white noise. Even better—no one would hear Beck’s comments at all.

Peter surveyed the test takers on one side of the room while Beck walked up the stairs on the other, and Peter had the misfortune of meeting Beck’s eyes across the lecture hall. 12:10—by now, all the late students would be there, and all the extra tests were collected. Beck smirked at him from the other side of the room, and nodded towards the table at the front.

_ Fuck. _

Reluctantly, Peter made his way back down the stairs, blank tests gripped in his nervous hands. He set them back on the table and pulled his hoodie further around himself before sitting down in the chair behind the table, facing the class. God, it was so much worse than usual, even when they weren’t paying attention.

Beck followed a moment later, setting his own blank tests down on top of Peter’s and sitting in the chair next to his with a bright smile. God, he was so pleased with himself.

“You should have been a literature professor,” Peter mumbled.

“Why’s that, Pete?” Beck asked lowly, crossing his arms with the same air of cockiness.

“You fucking love talking.”

Beck chuckled under his breath. “You know, for all your protesting, I know exactly what you like to hear, Peter. And besides, only one of us wore a shirt that shows off their hickies, huh?”

Peter tugged his hoodie around himself again, but said, “Maybe I know what you like, too.”

“I don’t pretend otherwise,” Beck said brightly. “I am upset with you, though, really. Just look at you, you bratty little  _ tease _ , wearing that just to rile me up.”

Peter was silent—yeah, he couldn’t deny it, but why give Beck the satisfaction?

“I know you can’t argue.”

Ah, that was why. He’d just get it himself. Peter didn’t respond once more, but let a smirk form on his face as he watched the class idly.

“Jesus, Pete, I can’t wait to get you alone,” Beck admitted, unaffected by Peter’s silence. “You wanna show off those marks, fine. I’ll mark you up so good all you’ll see is me, even when you look in the mirror.”

Peter’s smirk fell off his face into a small frown.  _ Jesus _ , Beck. He was glad the blood stayed in his cheeks instead of moving further downwards—especially since that last statement conjured up an image of himself looking in the mirror, Beck wrapped around him from behind,  _ fucking _ him as Peter pressed his hands to the glass, moaning with marks bitten into his neck—

“Holy shit,” Peter whimpered, still quiet enough to keep unwanted attention away, but loud enough for Beck to hear him clearly. For once, it wasn’t Beck that made him blush—it was his own traitorous imagination. 

“Oh, you want that, honey?” Beck asked sweetly.

“Beck, stop,” Peter begged in a whisper. “Don’t do this right now, I can’t take it—” 

“Oh, so you get to make things hard for me, but I can’t reciprocate? So unfair, Mr. Parker.”

“I swear to God,  _ Quentin _ , if you try to get me hard in front of a bunch of eighteen year olds—“

“You’ll do  _ what _ , princess?” Beck asked. 

_ Holy shit. _ Peter was so stunned he couldn’t speak, and the noise that came from his vocal chords was entirely involuntary. It also happened right as a student approached, so Peter covered it with a cough. Beck warmly answered the student’s question, as if nothing happened at all. Once they left, Beck leaned over.

“How about you come to my office at 5:30 tonight, to help me grade tests for a little while?” he asked, looking down at Peter, who was about to break open if Beck continued too much longer.

“Yeah, yes,” Peter said, nodding enthusiastically. He couldn’t even blame himself—if Beck was unbearable before Friday, he was excruciating after, especially in front of a hundred students. Peter thought that hooking up would satiate him, but it only encouraged Beck; after all, his teasing before had been veiled, unsure if Peter wanted him at all, but the reassurance only allowed him to be more explicit. “Yeah, tests. We can—we can grade tests.”

Beck snickered to himself. “So eager to help, as always.”

“You know me,” Peter mumbled. “Star student.”

“Oh, believe me,” Beck said with a smirk, “I know exactly what you are.”

Peter rolled his eyes, tugged his hood up over his head and crossed his arms. Twenty minutes left of class, and a little over five hours until he could be really, truly alone with Beck.

Too much time, yet far too little.

***

In his fragile mental state, Peter decided to go back to his apartment to shower and change his clothes before returning to Beck’s office—normally he would’ve spent that time working in the library, but he wanted as much of an advantage over Beck as he could get.

This wasn’t a game, but fuck, it sure felt like it.

His hair almost always benefited from being washed; Peter was proud of his curls, even had shampoo and conditioner meant for curly hair, and they looked the best freshly dried. Like they were meant to be pulled on. He stood looking in the bathroom mirror, running his hands through his hair several times, pretending they were Beck’s hands instead.

Peter closed his eyes and shivered. Beck was wrong—he didn’t even need to  _ mark him up _ for Peter to see Beck when he looked in the mirror. He already saw him everywhere.

Peter returned to his bedroom after putting on deodorant and brushing his teeth, standing in front of the outfit he’d decided on during the bus ride home. This was the key to throwing Beck off: a soft, bright yellow turtleneck, black skinny jeans, a denim jacket, and brown boots. It was cute, it was form-fitting, and Beck would like it. But it wasn’t  _ seductive _ . It didn’t show off marks, or come off immediately as sexy. It was  _ cute _ .

It was what was underneath that was sexy, and oh, Beck would not be expecting that.

Peter reached out his hand to run his fingers over the pair of panties he’d nearly forgotten about purchasing—soft and peach-pink, both innocent and scandalous all at once. The edges were all trimmed with lace, and when he pulled them on, they only covered about half of his asscheeks.  _ Yeah _ , Peter thought, biting his lip.  _ These will do. _

***

Quentin was more excited than he had expected; by 5:20 PM, he was bouncing his leg under his desk in anticipation, knowing that Peter would be there soon. The kid was getting to him. He couldn’t feel  _ too _ bad—TA positions weren’t the same as research related ones, and were meant more as opportunities for grad students to earn money in their field while getting a feel for the mechanics of teaching. It wasn’t like he was…  _ detrimental _ to Peter’s studies. They were still going to grade the tests (mechanics of teaching), and Peter was still going to get paid by the department (opportunities for money).

Still. He probably shouldn’t have been sleeping with his TA. 

But fuck, he’d been a professor for a  _ decade _ , and Peter Parker was the only student that even came close to tempting him. 

He was drawn out of his Peter-focused moral crisis when the very focus of said moral crisis knocked on his open office door three times. Beck’s head shot up immediately, and he couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his face. 

No more wonderfully revealing v-neck, but Peter was still so pretty in his cute little sweater, with his bouncy curls, especially when he smiled so innocently as he closed and locked the door behind him. 

“Hi, Dr. Beck,” Peter greeted, slipping off his backpack and his jacket as he sat down in front of Beck’s desk. Beck watched him with a personally unsettling intensity—he didn’t know why, but he kind of wanted to pull Peter into his lap and keep him there forever. “Do you have the answer key so we can start grading midterms?” 

Beck’s smirk turned into a frown immediately. “Peter.” 

“Yes?” 

“ _ What? _ ” 

“What?” Peter asked with a smile, and now Beck could see it, the brattiness underneath the faux-innocence. He tilted his head to the side in mocking confusion. “I thought you said we’d be grading midterms. Isn’t that why you asked me to come to your office?” 

Beck looked at Peter for a long moment, and he could see the kid start to squirm under his gaze. Good. Served him right for being such a  _ nuisance _ . Finally, a slow smile spread over Beck’s face as a fitting idea formed in his head. 

“Okay, yeah,” he said. “Come here, Pete.”

Peter gave him a look of confusion, but nevertheless stood up and went to Beck’s side of the desk. When Beck remained silent, he said, “Okay, I’m here.” 

Beck only smirked and wheeled backwards in his desk chair. “Sit.” 

He delighted in the way Peter froze. “What?” 

“I know you heard me,” Beck said. “Sit down, in my lap, facing the desk.” 

***

_ Why oh why did he ever believe he could have the upper hand? _

“Professor Beck,” Peter said weakly. Any attempt to preserve his dignity. “This seems kind of unorthodox.” 

Beck actually laughed out loud at that. “Peter, honey, I’ve got to make sure you grade all those tests right. What better way than to look over your shoulder, to make sure you know what you’re doing?” 

Peter hesitated, even though he wanted it so bad, because now it was a  _ game _ , and it was a game he had a role in. After a second, he nodded, biting his lip as demurely as he could manage in this situation. He sat down in Beck’s lap, and oh,  _ God _ . 

They both moaned at the same time, Beck quiet, Peter unfortunately loud. Beck was so warm, and firm, and he smelled so fucking  _ good _ , and his hands were grabbing Peter’s hips as he moved them towards the desk. Peter let his hands grab the edge of the desk. He could feel Beck’s dick beneath him, slowly firming up, and he never wanted to move from this position again.

Beck released the grip on his hips and leaned forward—pressing into Peter, which made another moan spill out of his lips—to grab an answer key, a test, and a red pen, setting them in front of Peter. Right into Peter’s ear, he whispered, “Once you finish this, I’ll give you what you really came here for.” 

Peter might have whimpered at that, and definitely whimpered when Beck pulled down the collar of his turtleneck to kiss Peter’s neck. Peter tensed and gripped the desk even harder. Beck snaked another hand around his middle to keep Peter flush against him. 

“What, you think a piece of fabric can get between me and that pretty skin of yours?” Beck asked with a short laugh. “Come on, Pete, grade your test.” 

He grabbed the red pen with a shaking hand, uncapping it as he slid the test towards him. He was grateful that Beck planned to post the key online—that meant Peter only had to circle the correct answers of missed questions, instead of writing out the explanations for each one. Still—the test was thirty questions, and Beck made each one a struggle, his mouth working diligently on Peter’s neck and jaw, his cock insistently pressed against him. 

Despite Beck’s distractions, Peter got to question twenty-two before he dropped his red pen, gripping the arms of the desk chair with a shuddering moan. Beck took the opportunity to grind his hips up against Peter’s ass, and Peter almost sobbed at that, pressing back further into Beck until his head lolled back against Beck’s shoulder. God, Beck was so fucking  _ big _ in every sense of the word—it felt so good all around him. 

“Come on, princess, finish grading for me and I’ll be so nice to you, just one more page,” Beck murmured into his ear. Fuck,  _ that  _ again—one of the best and most damning on Beck’s list of pet names. Beck must have felt him squirming at the name, because he laughed with pure delight. “Aw, you like that name, don’t you? It suits you. Don’t worry, princess. I’ll spoil you just like you deserve. You’re almost there.” 

Peter nodded with a sniffle, another shiver running down his spine when Beck bit lightly on his ear, kissing it right after. Slowly, with maximum effort, Peter pulled himself up so that he was leaned over the desk once again. Beck’s hand moved from his collar to run his fingers gently through his hair.

“You’re so pretty, Peter Parker,” Beck murmured, possibly more to himself than Peter, who was trying his hardest to focus on grading despite all the places he could feel Beck so acutely. “It’s almost unfair.”

The praise made something in Peter’s chest  _ active  _ while his face heated up once more. He ignored Beck the best he could, and finally, finally finished grading.

With a weak but triumphant squeak of excitement, he sat the pen down and slid it, and all of the papers, as far away from him as possible. Peter was proud of himself; he didn’t even drool on any of them, or make any particularly bad marks. He leaned back into Beck’s warm body once more.

“Good job, princess,” Beck said with a kiss to his cheek. Peter whined and gripped the arms of the chair, as Beck’s hand slid further down his body, coming to rest at his hips. The other hand came to Peter’s face to turn it to the side, and Beck leaned forward just a bit to press an open-mouthed kiss to Peter’s lips. Peter followed eagerly, as Beck slid his hand just below his waistline, just under his pants and—Beck froze, pulling back from his lips. “Peter.”

“Huh?”

“What are you wearing?”

Oh,  _ fuck _ . Peter had forgotten all about the panties. He gasped and, imagining just how Beck would react to them, broke into a fit of giggles.

“Why don’t—“ he paused, trying to contain himself. “Why don’t you have a look for yourself, Professor Beck?”

He heard Beck’s shaky exhale in his ear, then watched as Beck’s thick fingers undid the button of his jeans and pulled down his zipper. Peter had to resist grinding his ass back into Beck’s cock. As the lacey pink was revealed, Beck pressed his forehead into Peter’s shoulder with a groan.

“ _ Fuck _ , kid.”

No, that wasn’t good enough. Shakily, Peter stood up in between Beck’s legs and slid his pants down to his knees, revealing the full effect of the peach-pink panties. He wanted Beck to feel exactly as  _ teased  _ as he did—Peter bent over Beck’s desk, sticking his ass out. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked back at Beck, waving innocently.

“Do you like them?” he asked sweetly.

Beck, open mouthed, struggled for words, instead placing a hand on each of Peter’s thighs. “Pete,” he said hollowly,  _ reverently _ . “This is  _ not _ fair.”

“Hm,” Peter said, resting his chin on his hand. “Sounds familiar, almost exactly like how you tease me in class constantly. Difference is, here? You can do something about it.”

“Brat,” Beck mumbled. A slap to his thigh followed, and Peter had to stifle a moan at that. Beck’s hands moved to his ass, squeezing it once. “Don’t pretend like you don’t sit in the front row looking like you belong in my bed on purpose.”

Peter blushed at that—he couldn’t stop thinking about Beck fucking him, God—but smiled coyly and stuck his ass out further anyways. “Then why don’t you  _ do something _ about it, Dr. Beck?”

Beck growled at that, pushing his chair back and standing behind Peter.

“You’re a little brat, Parker,” Beck said, wrenching open a desk drawer to Peter’s right. He grabbed something out of it before slamming it shut again. “Do you know how crazy you drive me? I’m surprised I haven’t stopped class just to drag you outside and fuck you. Do you know how bad I want to fuck you, Pete?”

_ No, but I know how bad I want you to fuck me,  _ Peter thought, but it came out as a whine as Peter pressed his cheek to the desk.

He could feel Beck’s cock pressing against his ass through his pants, and it felt  _ good _ . Even through the fabric he could feel how thick Quentin was slotted between his cheeks. Peter arched his back, hoping to get something more—fuck, he wanted Beck’s cock in him so bad.

Quentin ran his hand over Peter’s panties, tracing the lace on top and then sliding his finger under it to snap the band against Peter’s ass. Peter moaned as Beck squeezed one of his cheeks. His ears perked up when he heard the cap of a bottle flicked open.

“Did you—do you have lube in your desk?”

“You have driven me crazy enough that I brought lube to put in my desk, yes,” Beck answered. Peter could hear Beck’s zipper as he undid it and pulled his pants down.

“Are you—are you gonna—?”

“I’m not going to fuck your ass, if that’s what you’re asking.” Beck’s other hand tugged Peter’s panties halfway down his thigh. Beck’s hand stopped just shy of his inner thighs, before Beck said, “but I want to fuck your thighs, if that’s okay with you, princess.”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Peter moaned, and Beck brought his lube-covered fingers to Peter’s thighs, painting it on in thick coats. Fuck, it felt dirty, letting Quentin fuck his thighs while he was still almost fully clothed, just bent over Beck’s desk with his pants and panties barely pulled down. But it felt good, especially when he could hear Quentin slicking up his cock behind him.

“Push your thighs together for me, sweetheart,” Beck said, one hand on Peter’s ass. Peter did, and Beck pushed his cock into the tight heat of his legs pressed together. They moaned at the same time.

Beck gripped his thighs so hard he was going to have bruises, and if there was a way to show those off in front of the class, oh, Peter would have loved to drive Beck even more crazy.

But for now it was him that was being tortured; Beck started slow at first, just barely dragging his cock back and forward through the slick cavern of Peter’s thighs. At first, he didn’t understand the appeal—it was good, sure, to be used like this, to feel the way he affected Beck. But it lacked the fullness that he craved, and he knew that as much as he  _ drove Beck crazy _ , Beck had done the same to him, taunting him with imitations of what he really needed.

Then, though, Beck started to speed up, snapping his hips faster against Peter’s, panting behind him, even letting out the occasional moan. Peter’s arms stretched out so he could grab the other edge of the desk, clawing at it with little whimpers every time Beck slammed into him.

Now it was better than Peter expected—he had never had his thighs fucked before, but the way Beck’s cock pushed up against his balls and the way Beck’s hips pushed into his ass and Beck’s big hands gripping his thighs as he fucked into Peter, faster and faster… that was going to do it for him.

The feeling stretched on infinitely, and Peter’s cheeks burned knowing how illicit the whole affair was. He moaned at the thought, even reaching one of his hands back to stroke at his cock—but Beck grabbed his wrist and brought it back to the desk, and instead snaked his own hand around Peter’s front to grip his cock. Peter squeezed his thighs together tighter, and Beck groaned at the feeling.

“Come on, princess,” Beck panted in his ear. “I want you to come for me, Peter. Fuck, you feel so good, so nice and tight for me, even just your thighs. Can’t even imagine what your cute little hole must feel like—“

Peter gasped out, “Oh, fuck,” and came into Beck’s hand.

“Good boy,” Beck growled. Peter kept his thighs tight even as he felt all the tension drain out of him until he was little more than a puddle on Beck’s desk. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so good—“

With a groan, Beck came between his thighs, his hips stuttering against Peter’s ass until they finally stopped.

The Beck that decided to fuck his thighs was entirely different than the Beck who cleaned him off after, the best he could with the soft tissues he pulled from the box on his desk. And even that Beck was different than the one who sat back down in his desk chair, but pulled Peter with him so that he faced Beck. The one that let Peter curl up into his chest, that put his arms around him and kissed his forehead. 

If Peter thought about it too hard, he would have had a panic attack in Beck’s lap, so he just leaned into the warmth, and after five minutes or years he murmured, “I knew the panties would drive you crazy.” 

Beck barked out a laugh at that. “Yeah, Peter. They were a good idea.” 

*** 

An hour and a half later, Peter was lying on his stomach on the carpeted floor of Beck’s office, resting his chin on his folded arms as he graded tests, and with some irrational feeling in his chest, Beck thought Peter looked like he could be at home. He even had his shoes off, legs in the air. Beck smiled to himself. 

“What are you doing, kid?” 

“Hm?”

“Why are you on the floor?” Beck clarified. 

“Good place for contemplating why I just fucked my professor in his office. Also, it’s comfy.”

Curse Peter’s memory. Beck laughed at him nonetheless. He was cute. He was kind of unfairly cute, especially in the stupid yellow turtleneck. “Stop contemplating and grade your tests, Parker.” 

Peter sighed dramatically. “Sorry, sir. Your masculine allure just drives me and my silly hormones crazy.” 

Beck actually snorted at that. “Parker, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to have to come over there and fuck you again, and then we’re going to get behind on grading. Then we’re going to have a bunch of freshmen emailing us thinking we lost their tests. Is that what you want?”

Peter hummed to himself. “Does that mean you’ll fuck me after we’re done?” 

“If you’re good.”

“If I’m good?” 

“Mmm.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“How about,” Beck said, pausing momentarily to think to himself, “how about you don’t come until we finish grading all the tests?” 

Peter paled. “H-how long will that take?”

“Split between both of us? About six hours total. We’ve already done almost two hours tonight, we can do another two Wednesday night if you’re free, and the last two Friday night.” Beck paused with a wicked grin. He asked innocently, “So Friday night?” 

“I’m free Wednesday,” Peter said quickly. “So Friday night.” 

“If you’re good,” Beck added with a shrug. “And Peter.” 

“Dr. Beck?” he asked, uncertainty in his voice. Huh. Apparently Peter knew quite a few ways to affect him. 

“Don’t think I’ll make it easy for you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise!
> 
> i meant for this originally to be two chapters, but the feedback was overwhelming (in a good way!!!) and it encouraged me to go crazy. about halfway through writing the second part, i realized it would be better if i wrote three chapters of the main story, and then the fourth part as a short but sweet epilogue. so! here's the second part, and parts three and four should be up soon!!
> 
> again, thanks for all the feedback, and feel free to leave comments/kudos/other forms of encouragement for me to be as extra as possible <3


	3. 3

Peter stood outside the door to the lecture hall and wondered why he was doing this to himself. 

Beck was a bastard, even if Peter was becoming… fond of him. So why did Peter feel such an obligation to torture himself like this? And it was torture. He would’ve been fine—no orgasms for a handful of nights was difficult, but not impossible—if it weren’t for Beck infiltrating his mind and making him horny  _ all the time _ . 

And Peter did wonder what Beck meant when he said he’d fuck him. What—what _ exactly _ did he mean? More thigh stuff, or… was it what Peter had been dreaming of, too?    
  
Peter might not have been a teenager any more, but he was still young enough to be  _ frustrated _ . 

So when he walked into the lecture hall in his joggers and sweatshirt, and Beck still looked like he wanted to devour him, Peter was going to explode. 

“Parker,” Beck greeted when Peter made it to the bottom of the stairs. “Can you come here for a moment?” 

Peter wanted to cry. He nodded, slipping his backpack off and placing it onto his usual seat, and walked stiffly over to Beck’s podium, arms crossed over his chest. As soon as he did, Beck clapped a hand onto his shoulder—fuck, it burned through two thick layers of cloth. 

“You did really great with grading Monday night, Pete,” Beck said. He sounded surprisingly genuine, which made Peter want to preen under his touch. “I just wanted to say thank you again before you come in to help tonight. Is six okay?” 

“Yeah,” Peter murmured with a nod. “S-six is fine.” 

“Hey, now,” Beck said, lowering his voice. “What’s wrong, honey? You’re looking a little flushed.” 

Peter shook his head helplessly. “Quentin, don’t fucking do this to me. I already feel like I’m going to  _ die _ .” 

“Aw, you’re so dramatic, princess,” Beck said fondly. “I’m just trying to make sure my little boy is doing okay.” 

“Oh my God,” Peter whimpered. “I’m—I have to go sit down.” 

Beck removed his hand from Peter, but not before tapping his cheek twice gently. “Go sit down, Pete. We don’t want you to have a heart attack or something, do we?” 

Peter didn’t answer, just tried his best to subtly run back to his seat. He pulled his hood up over his head, wrapped his arms around himself. 

Only two more days left, after today. But he still had to get through the night in Beck’s office. 

***

This time, when Peter knocked on Beck’s open office door, it was shy, worried. Beck didn’t like that at all. Frustrated Peter was one thing; Beck liked when Peter bit back, when Peter acted out without hesitation. That was just Peter being himself instead of his perfect student-persona. But this Peter just looked scared. That—no, that wasn’t what he wanted, for him or for Peter. 

Beck stood up immediately and walked across the room to Peter, who had already shut and locked the door. Peter had his back up against it now, and his bottom lip trembled as Beck stood in front of him. But Beck, gentle as he could manage, reached his hand up to Peter’s cheek and leaned his lips down to Peter’s and kissed him, soft and chaste.

When he pulled away, Peter’s eyes stayed closed for a second, before he opened one and groaned, leaning his head back against the door. “I hate you,” he whimpered. “I hate you so much.” 

Beck chuckled.  _ There he is.  _ “Yeah, yeah, I know, kid. Are you gonna come grade these tests or what?” 

Beck moved to go back to his desk, but before he could, Peter grabbed him by the shirt collar—with a surprising amount of physical strength—and pulled him down for another kiss, this one harsher and more aggressive, that ended with Peter biting at his lips. Beck smirked into it. That was much, much better.

“When Friday night rolls around,” Peter said, panting into his mouth, “and we’re done grading these stupid fucking tests, you better fuck me so hard I can’t fucking  _ walk, Quentin _ .” 

The use of his first name always, always sounded good from Peter. More than good. And it sounded even better when Peter essentially gave him permission, no, a  _ command _ to absolutely wreck him. 

“How about this, princess. The cleaners from the school normally come at around ten or eleven on weeknights, but—and I do hope you don’t have any plans this weekend—I plan on keeping you up much, much longer than that,” he said. He didn’t know what possessed him to say the next part, and he hoped it wasn’t too far, but the way Peter looked at him, so open and wanting, made him want to give Peter everything in the world. “So Friday night, you pack a change of clothes or whatever you need, and I take you back to my place, and I give you exactly what you ask for, and you take exactly what you want. Do you want that?” 

“Yeah,” Peter whimpered. “Fuck, Beck,  _ please _ .” 

Beck watched the way Peter’s face melted in relief as he stepped back. A grin crawled over his face when he said, “I hope you sound just like that, sweetheart.” 

“I  _ hate _ you!” 

Beck only laughed. 

They fell into a rhythm of grading, after that. Peter lied on the floor again ( _ It really is more comfortable, Beck, I don’t know what to tell you _ ), but every once in awhile Peter buried his face in his arms and groaned, “Beck, I fucking hate you.” 

“Do you want me to face the other way?” Beck asked, without looking up from his test. 

“No, I want your dick, but I can’t have that,  _ can _ I?” 

“Nope!” 

Peter just whined into the carpet again. “I  _ haaate _ you. Fuck, I haven’t been this horny since I was a teenager.” 

“You’re what, twenty-two?” 

“Twenty-three,” Peter hissed. 

“Oh, I see. Quite the difference.” 

“Shut  **_up_ ** , Quentin!” 

Beck sighed dramatically. “Sorry, sweetheart. You’re just too cute when you’re angry.” 

Peter just screamed into his arms. 

***

When Friday rolled around, Peter’s body was mostly a solid block of tension. He cancelled lunch with MJ because he knew she’d pick up on something—fucking  _ cog sci students _ —especially since he was already weird enough on Wednesday. Ned was busy enough for Peter to sneak in and out of their apartment mostly unnoticed. Lab work on Thursday was torture. He wanted to make it to Friday evening more than he wanted anything else in the world. 

He opted for a sweatshirt and sweatpants again—grad students weren’t expected to dress well, and these were well-fitted since Peter didn’t usually wear baggy clothing, so he looked presentable if a little understated. Whatever. Midterms season destroyed even the best of fashion senses. 

Beck, though. Beck never seemed to stop looking at him like he was a five-course-fucking-meal. God, he wanted to make Beck scream tonight, to make him feel even close to how on edge Peter had been. Maybe he’d flip him on his back and ride him until he was begging. Peter shook his head as he got to the bottom step. He couldn’t think about that now. Even Beck’s hand on his shoulder might have made him come in his pants. 

And sure enough, Beck motioned him over to the podium. Peter walked over without setting his backpack down, staying a respectable distance away from Beck. When Beck raised a single eyebrow at him, Peter muttered, 

“If you put a hand on me I might come in my pants.” 

Beck’s face softened at that, into something a little mischievous, but mostly just endeared. Peter’s throat went dry at  _ that _ look. 

“Okay, honey,” Beck said, thankfully and unfortunately keeping his hands to himself. “I won’t touch you.” 

“Yet,” Peter reminded him harshly. “You won’t touch me _ yet _ .” 

“Yeah, princess, I remember,” Beck said with a grin. Peter closed his eyes and exhaled. 

“Even…” he paused, trying to regain his composure, whatever little of it was left. “Even thinking about it is going to make me hard. Did you drug me or something? Why is this happening?” 

“Jesus, Peter. It’s my—what’d you call it?— _ masculine allure driving your silly hormones crazy. _ I didn’t _ drug you _ , unless there’s something really weird in this cologne.” Peter actually giggled at that. 

“No, but you do smell really good,” Peter said, sighing.

“You’re making it really hard not to kiss you, Mr. Parker,” Beck said, and wow,  _ what _ ? Beck glanced at his watch. “It’s almost noon. Go sit down before I lose my resolve and you come in your pants in front of a bunch of eighteen year olds.” 

“Quentin,” Peter spat out, color rising to his cheeks. God, why couldn’t Beck have a mute button or something? He turned to go sit down. 

“Peter,” Beck said, and Peter looked back at him warily. “Is six okay again?” 

“Yeah,” Peter said, and his mouth felt like cotton. “Six is good.” 

***

Peter went home again before he went to Beck’s office, to shower and pack his—fuck—overnight bag. The idea that going to Beck’s house was outlandish didn’t even cross his mind, which was surprising considering Peter’s general anxiety. He supposed that only proved just how deeply Beck was affecting him. (He did not, for a second, want to think that it was because he trusted Beck.) 

While his head was under the steaming water of his shower, an idea sparked. A really bad idea, that would undoubtedly make tonight even more difficult for him. But. 

Peter turned the water off. 

How hard ( _ ha _ ) could it be to finger and plug himself without coming first? That way Beck wouldn’t have to waste time prepping him, and that way he would get to watch Beck fall apart just a little bit when he saw the shiny pink jewel at the base of the plug—and, since Peter was feeling particularly mean, the barely-there black panties over it, even more _ scandalous _ than his pink pair. (He really did have a lot left over from dating Harry, but hey, apparently it was going to good use.) 

It was near torture getting the plug in without coming—especially when Peter was face down on his bed, pushing his cock into the mattress, groaning into the pillow—but miraculously he did it. Even more miraculously, he decided to make things even worse for himself. He had been wearing sweatshirts and sweatpants for the comfort and stretch, but—but now that it was Friday, he might as well dress for… for Beck. 

He hated saying that, but fuck if it wasn’t true, and fuck if it didn’t turn him on. 

The light wash jeans he pulled over his hips were tight with little rips running up the thighs, and the dark red shirt he chose would’ve been a crop top if it were even a little shorter. They fit like a second layer of skin. The black boots had enough of a heel to add something to his shape, and the black leather jacket was a final touch. Peter looked at himself in the mirror for a long time, playing with his curls. 

He hoped Beck was as frustrated as he was.  __

***

When Peter knocked on the door, there was no emotion other than want in his eyes—he knocked twice, solid, while staring straight at Beck, then closed the door behind him with his foot and locked the door all while maintaining eye contact. It’d been a few days since Beck had seen him in one of his outfits, and while Peter was beautiful regardless of what he was wearing,  _ holy shit _ . 

Beck wasn’t easily intimidated, and especially not by all five-feet eight-inches of Peter “star-student, cute-as-a-button” Parker, but he could admit he felt the intensity of Peter’s desire across the room. 

“Peter,” Beck greeted. “Thanks for coming to help me again.” 

“It’s just us, Beck.” 

“Do you really want me to behave like I do when it’s  _ just us _ , Pete?” 

“No, fine, whatever,” Peter mumbled. He shouldered off his bag into one of Beck’s chairs and flopped down into the other. “Just give me the rest of my tests.” 

Beck smiled at him, genuinely pleased. Peter really was a fast grader. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, actually, we’re going faster than I thought. We only have about twenty tests left to grade, and then all that’s left is entering grades into Canvas, which I can do myself Sunday.” 

Peter visibly brightened at that. “So… so you’re saying…?” 

“Ten more each, then we can go.” 

“Fuck,” Peter moaned. “Fuck, okay, yeah. I can do ten.” 

Peter graded the first two sitting in the chair, Beck noticed, but moved to the floor again after a lot of squirming. Peter groaned when he laid down, but didn’t tell Beck he hated him like usual. Beck raised an eyebrow at that, especially when the kid seemed almost in pain. 

“You alright, Pete?” 

Peter just whined. 

“I know, princess, I know.” 

“No,” Peter said, muffled. “You don’t.” 

“That’s true. I’ve jerked off to the thought of fucking you plenty of times since Monday.” 

“Quentin,” he moaned, irritated but adorable. 

“You want that?” 

“You fucking—you know I  _ need _ you—” 

“Then finish grading so we can leave.” 

With stiff, deliberate motions, Peter picked his red pen back off the floor, scowled at Quentin, and continued circling answers on the test. 

It took them forty-five minutes to finish, and as soon as Peter did, he stumbled up off the floor, slamming his stack of tests on Beck’s desk. Beck looked up at him, and Peter wasted no time finally, finally climbing into his lap. 

“Pete,” Quentin said, hands immediately anchoring onto his hips. “How many times you think you can come tonight?” 

“I don’t know,” Peter said truthfully, threading his hands through Beck’s hair leaning down so that they were face to face. “But I want the first time to be right now.” 

“As you wish, princess,” Beck said, leaning forward to press his mouth to Peter’s. The kid was easily distracted, opening his mouth wide and making pretty little noises whenever Beck’s tongue so much as moved against him. It caught him by surprise when Beck moved his hand from Peter’s hip to rub at his dick through his jeans—Peter jumped with a noise that was half-whine half-moan. Beck chuckled at him. 

He expected Peter to protest, to say something about  _ dignity _ , but he only rocked his hips into Beck’s hand, chasing the friction it gave him. Beck’s other hand moved to his ass, pushing him forward, though Peter didn’t seem to need the encouragement. He kept his fingers in Beck’s hair, tight as he fucked his hand. 

Though Peter had said a hand on his shoulder would make him come, Beck knew what he really needed. 

“Come on, princess,” Beck murmured into his ear. “I know you can be so good for me. I know you can come in your pants for me. You’ve been waiting so long, Pete, you’ve been so good—you have my permission, honey, just let go for me—” 

“Fuck,” Peter whined, “Beck, please don’t—” 

“Please don’t what, honey?” he asked, fully expecting the answer to be _ please don’t make me _ . 

Instead, Peter near-screamed, “Please don’t stop!” 

Beck grinned.  _ Oh, Peter _ . He wouldn’t. Instead, he attached his lips to Peter’s neck, just under his ear, and bit down just as he squeezed Peter’s ass, massaging his cock through his jeans.

With one final stutter of his hips and a tight grin on Beck’s hair, Peter nearly sobbed as he came. Slowly, he released his grip on Beck’s hair, panting as he melted into Beck’s chest instead, wrapping his arms around Beck’s shoulders. Beck smiled and kissed the top of his head. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he reassured him. “You did so good.” 

He held onto him, until Peter mumbled something against his chest, and Beck had to tilt Peter’s chin up to hear him. 

“What was that, Peter?” he asked. 

“Are we still going back to your house?” Peter asked, unable to make eye contact. Wow. He didn’t know whether Peter was uncertain of Beck’s affections or just insecure. 

“Pete,” Quentin teased, “you think I’d let you stop after just that?” 

“No. I just really want you to fuck me already,” Peter said. Oh, he was full-on pouting now, his pretty lips tugged down as he finally looked up at Beck. 

“So needy,” Quentin said with a grin, grabbing Peter’s hips and holding onto him as he stood up from the chair. He watched Peter’s face as he set him back down. “Come on, let’s go.” 

Peter watched in awe as Beck started flicking off the monitors, computers, and other electronics in his office. “You can pick me up.” 

“Sure can.” 

“Oh my God, Beck, you have to fuck me against a wall,” Peter said breathlessly. 

“How about we worry about getting off campus first?” Beck asked, shrugging on his coat, buttoning it to cover up the currently forming situation in his pants. He ran his fingers through his hair a few times, trying to get it back to at least relatively normal. On the off-chance any of his colleagues had decided to stay abysmally late on a Friday night, he didn’t want to look like he’d just done unspeakable things to a particularly handsy Peter Parker (even if it was the truth). He grabbed the stack of midterms on his desk, shoving them back into the manilla envelope he’d been carrying them in. 

“Fine,” Peter mumbled. Beck smirked as Peter slipped off his leather jacket to tie it around his waist, covering the stain in his jeans. “What? Not like it’s cold outside. It looks normal.” 

“You’ve worn sweatshirts to class for the past two days,” Beck pointed out. 

“That’s not from the cold!” Peter protested. He took the envelope full of tests when Beck handed it to him. “Maybe it’s like, California cold. But it’s not _ cold _ .” 

“We  _ get it _ , you’re from New York,” Beck groaned, opening the door for Peter to walk out of the office as he flicked off the lightswitch. Beck shut and locked the door behind them. The hallway of the building was dim. Good. That meant no one was here. 

“How did you know I’m from New York?” Peter asked suspiciously, hurrying to keep up with Beck as he came to the elevator. 

“Besides the fact that you told me the first week I met you, you mean? I grew up in New York, and  _ you _ have an accent,” Beck explained. The way Peter’s face twisted up in confusion made him smile to himself. He pushed the down button. It dinged almost immediately. “Queens, right?” 

“Ugh, are you one of those  _ accent people _ ?” 

“ _ What _ ?” 

They stepped in. 

“You know, those people who can listen to you talk, and go  _ oh, your mom grew up in Brooklyn but she had a neighbor from Connecticut that influenced her accent, and your dad’s from upstate but he moved to the city for college, and one of them must have lived in DC for a year somewhere in there,  _ or whatever?” 

They stepped out. Beck held the door open for Peter that lead out to the small garden in front of their building. 

“You mean linguists? No, I’m not a linguistics person, which you know, as the TA for my  _ physics _ class.” 

“You’re an asshole. Which lot?” 

“There’s a staff one behind the building, it’s just hard to see because of the way the paths are built,” he explained, leading the way. “Anyways, no, I’m not an  _ accent person. _ We’re just from the same city.” 

“You barely even sound like it,” Peter said, following Beck as he clicked the unlock button on his keys and opened the backseat, and— “Holy shit, Quentin, you drive an  _ Audi _ ?” 

“Yup,” he said, throwing his bag in the backseat and shutting the door behind it. He opened the driver’s side door and said to Peter, who was standing in awe on the passenger’s side, “Are you coming or not?” 

“Coming,” Peter said, opening the door and slipping inside. Quentin smirked and followed, clicking his seatbelt into place before starting the car. He turned the heat up without Peter asking—he knew Pete wouldn’t ask, for the sake of pride and all that. 

“The seat warmer’s that button, if your New York ass gets cold,” Quentin said, tapping the button on Peter’s side. 

“You’re a professor,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “How do you make enough to drive an Audi?” 

“Pete,” Beck said, looking over his shoulder as he backed out of his spot. The parking lot was near empty, but Beck liked being careful. ( _ Evidently not that careful _ , a little voice in his head sang,  _ since you’re fucking your TA! _ ) “Think of it this way. We’re one of the top research schools in the country, in a city with a high cost of living, and we—” he gestured between the two of them, and oh, how Peter’s face lit up at that (and how good that made Beck feel)—“work in a specifically well-funded program. Not only am I tenured, but I’m also highly encouraged to publish any research or theories, for general audiences, peer journals, and student textbooks. And obviously, academia doesn’t pay like, say, a corporate CSME-based position does, but—” he counted on his fingers, the other hand on the steering wheel— “I’m not married, I don’t have kids, and besides my cat, the main people I like to buy things for are the handful of nieces and nephews I have on the other side of the country. And on top of all that? My position is less stressful and more interesting than anybody who stays up late making tech for some shithead employer that wants to commit war crimes, steal your work, or scam people out of billions. Something to consider once you get your PhD.” 

Peter was silent for a few moments, which Quentin admitted to himself was fair—that was a lot of information, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he said all of it. But Peter said, “You know, I think that might’ve been the most useful thing I’ve learned from you all semester.” 

“You are a _ brat. _ ” 

“You love it.” 

Well, that was new. 

Beck faltered for a moment—he didn’t realize Peter caught onto his fondness, even in a sexual manner. Shit. Maybe he did. 

“Yeah, kid,” he said, glancing over at Peter as he checked his right mirror to turn. They were almost to his street. He was never so glad he lived relatively close to campus. “I do.” 

“Wait, wait,” Peter said, blushing but obviously trying to talk through it. “You—how are you tenured already? You’re not even old.” 

Beck laughed at that. God, the kid was charming for all of his fumbling. “Maybe you’re not the only prodigy, Parker.” 

“Whatever,” Peter mumbled. “You still didn’t explain why you don’t have an accent.” 

“I have an accent,” Beck said defensively. Finally, they were on his street. Beck hit the gas that took them up the slightly winding hill. “Your ears must be untrained from all your time on the West coast.” 

“My ears are not untrained, Beck, you just—” Peter stopped as Quentin pulled into his driveway. “Holy fuck. You weren’t kidding.” 

“Nope,” Beck said cheerily, turning off the car. He got out quickly—even with the machine that fed her with the push of a button from his phone, Edith was going to be pissed at him for coming home late so often, and much more importantly than that, Peter Parker was practically gift-wrapped in his passenger seat, just waiting for him to tear the paper off. Peter climbed out of the car, and Beck clicked his keys to lock it. “C’mon, princess. I believe I have some promises to fulfill.” 

*** 

Beck’s house was insane. 

Peter grew up approximately the opposite of rich, to the point where luxury townhouses (even if they were, according to Beck,  _ only single-story _ ) with beach views from their patio (which, yes, of course had a fire pit!) made him feel not only uncomfortable but alien. Harry was rich when they dated, he guessed, but the decadence was just... weird. It was good for making him slightly less horny, though, and Beck’s decorating did made the place feel homier—it was hard to feel too weird when there were cat toys and claw marks scattered around the house, and when Beck apparently had a taste for big fluffy throw pillows and threw his mail on the dining room table, and when Edith herself pressed up against his legs in an unexpected welcome. 

“I think she likes me,” Peter said smugly. He’d slipped his boots and socks off and knelt down to scratch her head as she purred happily. 

“Baby,” Beck pleaded, kneeling across from him. “Come back to me. I promise I’ll stop coming home late.” 

“You had your chance,” Peter said, picking Edith up off the ground and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And also I am not surprised that your excessive pet names extend to your cat.” 

“She has more than you do.” 

“Of course. I’m only the mistress,” Peter said, rocking her in his arms. Quentin shook his head with a laugh. “Why Edith?”    
  
She meowed at Peter in response. Peter shushed her. Beck showed a rare moment of hesitation before asking, “Is it more embarrassing if I say Hamilton or Wharton?” 

Peter hummed. Either was unexpected. “Depends. Which one’s the truth?” 

“Hamilton,” he admitted. “I read  _ Mythology _ a thousand times when I was a kid, and probably more as an adult. Edith Hamilton was a cool lesbian who wrote about a lot of cool stories. Inspired me to, ah, get my minor in Classics and everything.” 

“You?  _ Really _ ?”

“I was a very,  _ very _ gay nineteen-year-old, Pete. Classics is just studying ancient gay people without saying as much to your parents.” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Gay humanities are cool,” he said quickly. Quentin was giving him a lot more than he expected. “I mean, I was almost a photography student.” 

“Huh. Why’d you change your mind?” 

Peter shrugged, kissing Edith’s head again. She mewed, batting at his cheek with her paw. “It’s just how it worked out. I liked physics and photography equally, but I had to make a decision eventually. I still like taking pictures and all, but… maybe in another life, we’re humanities people, I guess.” 

“Yeah. In another life.” 

Peter set Edith down, patting her twice on the head. “Sorry, Edith.” He looked up to find Quentin watching him, intense and unabashed with want. “I think, I think Quentin needs to take me somewhere else for a bit.” 

Quentin smirked and stood up, offering Peter a hand. “I was wondering when you’d get around to that,” Beck said, pulling Peter close by his hips. Peter shivered. He hoped Beck thought it was from the  _ California cold _ . “You gonna let me carry you?” 

“Oh, fuck,” Peter said softly. His pants were all kinds of uncomfortable; the stain was bad enough, but the plug and the panties made him squirm before Quentin even touched him. Still, he wanted to feel small and safe and _ held _ , like he did when Quentin picked him up or hugged him in his lap. “I—yeah. Please.” 

He wrapped his arms around Quentin’s neck, and when Quentin grabbed him behind his knees to lift him up, he buried his face where Quentin’s shoulder joined with his neck. Fuck, Beck’s hands felt huge on his thighs, gripping them with ease as he took Peter across the house to his bedroom. 

“S’not fair,” Peter said. “I still don’t understand how you’re so  _ built _ .” 

“How else would I carry you, princess?” Beck teased, pushing open a door on the left. He closed it behind them with his foot, and finally set Peter down on the edge of his (big, fluffy, navy-blue) bed. Peter wanted to drown in it. Beck’s bedroom was as spacey and impressive as the rest of the house, with an attached bathroom and the same ocean view as the patio, through a large window on the left side of the room. Beck pressed his hips into Peter’s and murmured, “Pretty little boy like yourself deserves to be spoiled, and who am I to deny that?” 

“You’re sadistic,” Peter groaned, pushing his hips back against Beck’s and dragging him down for a kiss. He’d been waiting so long—he was sure his mouth reflected that. Beck’s tongue was fully entwined with his when he realized that, despite their numerous encounters, he’d never seen Beck with his shirt off. 

Oh, that had to change immediately. 

With closed eyes he let his hands find the buttons, pawing at Beck’s shirt until he got them undone, one-by-one. Beck helped him with the last few, then let Peter slide the shirt off his shoulders. Peter opened his eyes and resisted the urge to start drooling. 

Fuck, Beck really was  _ built _ . 

If he felt small before, he surely felt so now; twenty-three might still be classified as a kid, after all, and Peter frequently straddled the thin line between feminine and masculine. But Beck was all broad chest and thick, coarse hair and things that made him feel small but protected. When Beck reached for the hem of his t-shirt, he obediently raised his arms.

When it was off, Beck immediately made a pleased noise and said, “Fuck, Peter, you’re so pretty, aren’t you, princess?” 

He pushed Peter down so his back was flat on the bed, then crawled on top of him, leaning down just a bit to flick his tongue over one of Peter’s nipples, making Peter gasp and grab at Beck’s hair. Beck responded by attaching his mouth around it, and fuck, Peter was still so sensitive that it made him grind his hips up against Beck. Quentin nipped at it gently before releasing it from his mouth. 

“You’re so squirmy, tonight, Peter,” Beck murmured, rubbing circles into his hips with his thumbs. “You okay, kid?” 

“I think—” Peter cut himself off with a shaky moan. “I think you should take my pants off and find out.” 

It must have sounded cheesy, because Beck snorted before untying the leather jacket and flinging it off towards their shirts, then popping the button of his jeans. Peter watched Beck expectantly as he slowly undid the zipper and saw the all-lace black panties. Beck paled as he tugged Peter’s jeans further down, until he pulled them all the way off his legs. 

“Pete,” he said hoarsely, tracing the material with his fingers. “Fuck, Peter, you’re such a good boy, aren’t you? Looking so sweet for me in your pretty panties. Can’t believe I waited so long to see all of you.” 

“That’s—” Peter cut himself off with a small whine. The plug kept pushing into him, and his head pressed back into the mattress. “That’s not it.” 

The look on Beck’s face was worth a thousand class hours of torture. 

“No?” Beck asked stiffly. The tent in his pants was impressive, and he wanted it  _ in him, now _ . 

“No,” Peter said, shaking his head with a small smirk. He turned himself over, wiggling his ass as he propped himself up on his elbows. “Why don’t you take a look, Professor Beck?” 

Slowly, Beck pulled the panties to the side to reveal the sparkling jewel base of the plug, and Peter giggled happily when Beck leaned into him and groaned into his shoulder. 

“Princess,” Quentin said, pleading, “you can’t do this to me, sweetheart.” 

“You want me to stop?” Peter asked innocently. “I have so many pretty things to wear for you.” 

“Wear them all, just know I can’t be held responsible if I fuck your grant-winning brains out.” 

“Didn’t I tell you to fuck me so hard I couldn’t walk?” 

“That you did, sweetheart,” Beck said, pulling at the plug. “And I intend fully to take your orders seriously.” 

Oh, _ fuck _ , he did. 

Five minutes later—or twenty, or a thousand, time passed like purgatory—Peter was a mewling mess in Beck’s bed, panting as he gripped onto a pillow and shallowly thrust his hips forward. Beck hadn’t even taken out the plug for longer than a few moments: instead, he fucked Peter with it, over and over, until he was close to screaming with want. He was so hard it hurt him, even as he ground into the mattress. 

“Quentin,” he whimpered, “please—” 

“Please what, sweetheart?” 

“F-fuck, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna come.” 

“Aw, that’s cute,” Beck said, leaning down to whisper into his ear. “How about you come in those cute little panties again for me, Pete? Then I’ll think about letting you take them off.” 

Peter moaned. Sweat stained his curls and made them cling to his forehead. Beck continued to fuck him with the plug—so much for  _ no prepping necessary _ . 

“C’mon, Pete,” he murmured. He wanted Beck to press his hips into him, so he could feel Beck’s cock against him. Fuck, he wanted Beck in him. “C’mon, sweetheart. Just let go for me, make a mess in your panties, honey, I know you can be so good for me, Peter—” 

“Quentin, oh,  _ fuck _ —” Peter’s hips stuttered one last time against the bed as he came, moaning shamelessly into the pillow he clutched in his arms. His limbs melted with the force of it, and he sunk bonelessly into the bed. 

Beck moved off of him and manhandled Peter into his arms, and Peter, unable to protest, rested his head against Beck’s chest. Beck had an arm wrapped around his back and another stroking his hair—the plug had apparently been thrown off to the side somewhere. He hated how much he loved the way Beck held him after he came. 

“You did so good, Peter,” he murmured. His chin rested on the top of Peter’s head. “You’re such a good boy.” 

“You know I put a plug in specifically so you wouldn’t have to spend extra time prepping me, right?” Peter mumbled, burrowing further into Beck’s chest. 

“You know I never do what you want me to, right?” 

“I know, because you love torturing me.” 

“I can’t help it. You always get such a cute look on your face when you realize how much you hate me.” 

“The look on your face when I wear panties is pretty good, too.” 

“Because you in panties is a revelation,” Beck admitted. “If I buy you more, will you wear them? You can even pick some of them out.” 

“Maybe,” Peter said, coy as he could manage in his fucked-out state. “If you’re good.” 

“Oh, honey. As soon as you feel like you can move, just tell me, and I’ll be  _ very _ good for you.” 

***

Peter had only just whispered, “Okay, I’m ready,” when his phone started ringing. 

“Shit,” Peter groaned. “I would ignore it, but it’s probably my roommate. I forgot to tell him I was gonna be… at a friend’s house.”

“Where is it?” Beck asked, pushing himself off the bed.

“Jacket pocket,” Peter said, watching with interest as Beck bent over to grab it. It must have been a crime in all fifty states for Quentin to still have his pants on, but fuck, his ass wouldn’t quit even with them on. Peter closed his eyes.  _ Ned _ , he remembered.  _ He had to talk to Ned _ .

Beck grabbed his phone and climbed back onto the bed, placing it in Peter’s hand. “Thanks,” Peter mumbled, answering the call just before the ringing stopped. “Hey, Ned.”

“Peter! Where are you, man? Normally you’re home by now. I was gonna ask if you wanted to get pizza and play games or something.”

As Ned was talking, Peter watched a downright sinister smirk form on Quentin’s face. He leaned over to the bedside table and grabbed a bottle of lube from the drawer, shaking it for Peter to see. Peter shook his head with horror.

“Uh—shit, man, I forgot to tell you. I’m staying the night at a friend’s house. You should invite Betty over, I won’t be home till tomorrow sometime,” Peter said, as he continued to shake his head at Quentin, who now knelt between Peter’s parted legs, pulling him forward so Peter’s ass was nearly in his lap. He pulled Peter’s panties off and flung them over his shoulder somewhere, then put a finger over his lips, and Peter squeezed his eyes shut in fear, biting his arm to muffle any noises that might be forced out of him.

“—Friend’s house? What friend? MJ?” Ned asked through the phone. Peter would’ve felt offended at Ned’s confusion if it weren’t for the fact that he heard Quentin pop open the bottle of lube, and could now feel his fingers brushing against his hole.

“He’s, um, f-from the physics department,” Peter gasped out as the tip of Quentin’s thick index finger entered him. His eyes shot open to see Quentin’s horrible, beautiful face smirking down at him. “You haven’t met him before.”

“Oh, shit, Peter! Is he the one you told me about? The mean one you’re super into? You’re  _ staying over _ ?” Ned asked, perking up. Beck’s eyebrows shot up in a pleased expression—Ned was loud enough for him to hear off speaker phone. Peter bit back a moan.

“Yeah, yeah, that one!” Peter said, wincing. “Seriously, Ned, I’m sorry I didn’t mention it, but you have the place to yourself, and like I said, invite Betty over!”

“Wait, Peter, I want to know—“

“Sorry, Ned, gotta go! Bye!”

He scrambled to end the call, and slammed his phone down on the side table with a pained groan.

“I hate you,” he squeaked out. “I hate you so much.”

“Apparently not,” Beck said, pushing his finger further into Peter with a delighted laugh at Peter’s ensuing noises. Dick. He looked so pleased with himself. “Really?  _ The mean one you’re super into _ ?”

“Ned thinks I have a bullying kink because of you,” Peter mumbled, flushed against the pillows.

“Is he wrong?”

“It’s not a  _ bullying _ kink!” Peter cried. His voice broke halfway through, when Beck started fucking him with his finger. Beck only hummed in response.

“You do like it when I bully you,” Quentin pointed out. He used his other hand to push Peter’s hips down. “You like it when I boss you around.”

“I—fuck, Quentin, shut  _ up _ —”

Quentin slipped his finger out, then added another with it when he pushed them back in. “What is it, then, honey? Why do you let me push you around? Why do you dress up so pretty for me? Why do you let me embarrass you?”

Peter groaned too loud to answer. Fuck, there were tears in his eyes—Beck was so mean, and it was even hotter knowing how nice he could be in those little moments where the asshole persona was replaced by Beck holding him and kissing his forehead, or when they stayed late talking in Beck’s office and not fucking, or when Quentin walked him to his bus stop at night and waited until he got on. That he was mean to him because Peter—because he—

“Fuck, Quentin, y-you know why,” he said, near sobbing.

“My pretty little princess,” Quentin teased, and he was  _ evil _ , moving his fingers faster, and Peter moaned so loud his head hurt. Fuck. “Let me hear you say it for me.”

His fingers just barely nudged Peter’s prostate, and Peter screamed, “Please, Quentin,  _ right there _ !”

And Quentin, the  _ mean and terrible bastard _ he was, pulled his fingers out entirely.

Peter gasped and a single tear fell down his cheek. He sat up immediately.

“Y-you, fuck, Quentin, please—” Peter said, reaching towards him desperately. Quentin grabbed his wrist and kissed the inside of it.

“If you say it, I’ll make you come from just my fingers.”

“F-fuck, shit, you’re  _ evil _ ,” Peter groaned. He just wanted to feel full again. “I like it! I like all of it. I like being a brat for you, I like it when you tease me in public, I like wearing panties and pretty clothes just to get a reaction out of you,  _ I like it when you’re mean to me _ —”

“And?”

“And—” Peter covered his face with his hands, pulling his wrist out of Beck’s grip, shaking his head. No, he couldn’t say it. He let himself fall back against the pillows with a sniffle. “Don’t make me. Please don’t make me.”

Beck leaned down, pulling each of Peter’s hands from his face. He kissed the stray tears that had fallen, before pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Peter’s mouth. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You don’t have to.”

But that was the thing. 

Even if Beck wasn’t going to make him say it, Beck knew him. Beck knew that, despite the humiliation, despite how difficult it was to force the words out of his mouth, Peter loved it. 

“I-I’m a brat,” Peter hiccuped out, red with shame and pleasure. “I’m your, I’m your princess.”

Quentin was still for a moment, then whispered, “Good boy.”

Before he could respond, Beck slammed three fingers in, hitting his prostate almost immediately. Peter gasped, arching his back off the bed as best he could. Beck moved his fingers in and out harshly, and Peter writhed on his fingers, moaning and whining with every breath.

Beck’s finger hit his prostate with every thrust, and Peter’s eyes rolled back in his head from the intense amount of pleasure. Quentin leaned down and, still holding his hips down, attached his mouth to Peter’s neck to suck another mark into his skin. Peter moaned and wrapped his legs around Quentin’s waist, trying desperately to get out of the hold on his hips.

Quentin released his neck long enough to whisper  _ I can’t wait to feel you all around me _ , then bit down harshly in the same spot. With one final cry, Peter came for the third time that night.

Now he was truly boneless, sinking back against the bed with a shaky but satisfied sigh. Beck… Beck brought out something strange in him. He had no idea how his stamina was so good, but he expected it had something to do with the man who now pulled his fingers out of his ass, wiped them on the bed, and kissed his face, gentle as a lamb.

“I’m sorry I made you cry, Pete,” Beck murmured, eyebrows knitted together in worry. Peter giggled, watery but pleased at Beck’s concern.

“No, s’okay,” he said, running a hand through Beck’s hair. “It was kind of ridiculously hot.”

“Still,” Beck said softly. “You know the green-yellow-red system?” Peter nodded. “Good. We’re gonna use that, unless you have a better idea. I don’t want to go too far.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Peter said with a nod. “And, uh, it wasn’t  _ too far _ or anything, but I still can’t believe you _ fingered me _ while I was on the phone with my best friend.”

“Still can’t believe you told your best friend you have a crush on me.” Peter groaned, covering his face with his hands. Beck laughed. “And who am I, in this lie? Some random PhD candidate?”

“No,” Peter said miserably. “I said I didn’t wanna give him details, but he probably thinks it’s this one dickhead engineering student.”

“You’re so cute, Pete,” Beck said, removing one of Peter’s hands to kiss his cheek. Peter blushed so hard he felt like he was going to die—he considered this ironic, since Beck kissing his cheek felt more intimate than having his fingers in his ass (though he supposed both were… a lot to handle, coming from someone as intense as Beck). “I like you, too.”

Oh, that made something in him melt and spill over until all he could do was smile up at Beck. But the smile broke a moment later.

“Wait a second,” he said lowly. “You motherfucker!”

Quentin’s face turned from pleasant to shocked in a second, and Peter’s face split into a sharp grin. Oh, what a  _ lovely _ reversal of roles this was going to be.

“You’ve walked me to my bus stop the last three nights I’ve been in your office.”

“…Yes.”

“You waited with me until I got on.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Because it’s on the way to your parking spot.”

“…Yes…”

“But I know you park in the staff lot by the physics building!”

“Shit,” Beck whispered.

“So you walked with me, uphill, in the cold, the opposite direction of your car, way past when you normally leave.“ 

“It wasn’t  _ cold _ . It was California cold, maybe, but it wasn’t cold!” 

“Still cold, and still night! Thirty minutes added to the time you’re at school!” 

“Maybe I just wanted to make sure you got to your stop safe.” 

“If you did, you would’ve just said that, and that would excuse your behavior. And besides, you know I ride the bus late Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I’m fine then!” 

“So what? I can still be concerned the days I’m there!” 

“Oh yeah? We live  _ San Diego _ , Quentin, and you know I’m from fucking Queens. I am a  _ subway rat _ . Public transportation here is  _ nothing _ . Admit it. You did that all because–” Peter stopped. He was grinning too hard to continue. 

“Because what, Parker?” Beck asked, narrowing his eyes at Peter.

“Because you have a  _ crush _ on me.”

“Lies and slander,” Beck said, turning his face away from Peter, and oh, was that a blush? Peter wouldn’t have that—he gripped Beck shoulders and rolled them over, pinning a surprised-looking Beck to his own bed. Ha. Fucker. He wasn’t the only one who went to the gym. 

“Not lies! Not slander!” Peter said, straddling his chest. He pointed a finger at Beck. “Evidence! You have a crush on me, and you would walk uphill, away from your car, in the cold, at night, wait for my bus to come, wink at me when I got on, and then wait for the bus to leave just so I wouldn’t notice that you went completely out of your way to talk to me for a few more minutes! Quentin Beck, you are  _ smitten _ !”

Beck was silent for a few moments, and Peter’s whole heart was on fire when Quentin sighed dramatically, placing an arm over his forehead. “Well, Detective Parker, it seems you’ve finally got me. Notorious, dastardly, and handsome villain Quentin Beck has been caught in the act. Put on the cuffs and drag me away. I’ve committed the heinous crime of actually liking someone I invited to stay the night at my house, whom I have many things in common with and have already admitted my fondness for, even saying I wouldn’t go to so much trouble to bother him if I didn’t like him.”

“Let me have this, you preschooler,” Peter said, poking Beck in the chest. Quentin grabbed his hand, intertwining their fingers. “And also, I know you were kidding, but I would love to handcuff you.”

“Add handcuffs to the list of things I need to buy to aid you in destroying me.”

“How do we feel about stockings?” Peter asked. “Ooh, or thigh-highs?”

Quentin sighed through his nose and placed his other hand on Peter’s calf. “I think you look cute in everything, but I think you in thigh-highs might turn me into a feral animal.”

“Added to the list!” Peter said, sing-song. He had quite a bit of energy for someone who’d come three times in the past two-ish hours; Beck could be blamed for that as well, even as he was mostly still beneath Peter, looking up at him with big blue eyes that stood out against the navy bedspread. Peter hummed. “You’re really pretty up against the blue. Did you do that on purpose?”

“You’re really pretty up against everything,” Quentin murmured, kissing his hand. “Did you do that on purpose?”

Peter smiled. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to sleep with me.”

“Me? Never,” Beck said. Peter giggled. Maybe Beck did fuck his brains out—everything felt soft around the edges. Maybe he’d just finally gotten the upper-hand. No matter what Beck did to drive him up the wall, no matter how bad Beck teased him, he still had an embarrassing, adorable crush on Peter, and that was more of an advantage than anything else. 

Peter was hit with the image he’d had in his mind that morning—pushing Beck onto his back and riding him until he begged (or, more likely, until he grabbed Peter’s hips, flipped him over, and made good on his promise to fuck Peter until he couldn’t walk). Either one sounded fantastic.

With a grin, he realized he was halfway there.

“It’s a really good thing that I’m trying to sleep with you, too,” Peter said, climbing off of Beck’s chest to kneel next to him. With shaky fingers—he was finally, finally getting what he wanted—he undid Beck’s belt, then unbuttoned his pants, then his zipper, and then tugged his pants and underwear down and off his legs completely. He threw them somewhere off the bed, because now, he realized, was the first time he’d seen Beck’s cock up close. Peter had to hold himself back—he would’ve stuffed it down his throat if he didn’t want Beck to fuck him so bad.

So instead, he reached over towards the bedside table and pulled open the drawer, ripping a condom packet from one of the strips Beck had. He went through the motions as best he could with Beck watching him, and smirked when Beck moaned softly as Peter slicked up his cock with lube. Finally, finally he climbed onto Beck’s lap once more and, positioning his cock, sank down onto him with a moan, shutting his eyes tight. By the time he was fully seated, he and Beck were both panting, and Beck’s hands held onto his hips. 

Tentatively, Peter put his hands over Quentin’s, holding onto them as he slowly rocked himself back and forth.

For a little while, Beck was quiet beyond occasional grunts of pleasure and whispered encouragements; Peter moved slowly but deliberately, letting himself feel every inch inside him. Quentin didn’t snap his hips up or force Peter to change his speed, only moved his hips how Peter wanted. Peter’s head was lolled back, neck exposed, and holding Beck’s strong hands—feeling the way they gripped his hips with certainty—made him sentimental in addition to  _ full.  _ Chasing that sensation, the one he’d craved for so long, he picked up the pace of his hips until he was bouncing up and down on Beck’s cock.

That, of course, was when Quentin started speaking.

“You look so good on my cock, princess,” he said, and he sat up now, rolling his hips up into Peter. “Wanna sit you in my lap and keep you there all day.”

Fuck, if that wasn’t a thought. He’d never tried something like that before—cockwarming, he thought it was called—but brief images sprung up of himself sitting still and happy on Quentin’s cock, tucked in his lap as he worked, or, better yet, on his knees under Quentin’s desk, mouth stuffed and leaking, Beck only fucking his mouth hours later.

“Fuck, Quentin,” he choked out.

“You want that, honey?”

Peter nodded, his scrunched face painted by the effort of talking. 

“Pretty little boy like you was made for it,” Beck said through his teeth. Quentin’s fingers dug into his hips as Quentin grunted with the force of Peter slamming down into him. He twisted his hips and watched Quentin’s face contort in pleasure. He breathed heavy, now, and Peter’s lips hardly raised in a smile. He wasn’t the only one affected, then. Still, he was smooth and steady when he said, “You were made to get fucked, Peter, I swear I’ve never seen anything better.”

“Quentin,” Peter whimpered out. He gasped—just then, Beck’s cock slipped out of him. He whined at the loss, but gripped Beck’s cock to position himself over it again. The second time he slid down it was accompanied by Peter’s little mewls and gasps.

“Fuck, you sound so good,” Beck groaned out. “You make such sweet noises, honey.”

But those noises were all Peter could say, and he began losing his rhythm to sensation.

“Give me a color, honey?”

“Green,  _ fuck _ , but I, I need you, I need you to f-fuck me,  _ please _ .”

Beck was nothing if not willing to help. He pulled out (ignoring Peter’s protests) and used the hold on Peter’s hips to flip them over, Peter on his back and Beck above him.

Beck, then, proceeded to give Peter exactly what he needed.

He ended up nearly bent in half, his legs flung over Beck’s shoulders and his fingers twisting in the sheets. Sweat glistened on his skin in a thin layer that covers his body.

“Fuck, I need you  _ harder _ ,” Peter panted out, even as his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat from exertion, even as Quentin overwhelmed his senses. And Beck didn’t disappoint: he dropped his head to kiss Peter’s neck and thrusted even harder. Peter let out a little moan with every slap of their hips.

“Peter,” Beck said, lips still against his skin. He wondered, briefly, why Beck’s mouth always made him come. “You’re the prettiest boy in the world, split open like this,” he said, pausing in between words from kisses and the moans that spilled from his lips.

Peter tilted his head back further as Beck kissed his jaw. He felt exposed but in the best way possible; bent in half, Quentin filling him up and covering him with his body, all his undersides kissed and fucked and caressed. Peter shivered.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” he asked. “Good? Close?”

“Close,” Peter gasped out. He was. There was a familiar tightness forming in his muscles, and he didn’t know how—he’d come so many times that night. “Please, Quentin.”

“I know you can be so good for me honey, I want you to come on my cock, Pete, you can do it,” he panted out. “I’ll be so proud of you, sweetheart—”

Beck had one hand pressed into the bed on either side of Peter’s head, and his beard burned against the skin of his neck, and his cock split him open relentlessly, nudging against his prostate as a broken moan rips out of Peter’s throat, and with a shivering, hoarse cry, he came again.

Beck’s hips kept up a steady, quick pace. And as exhausted and over-stimulated as he was as Quentin fucked him through his orgasm, when Beck started moaning like he was getting close, Peter’s fingers still ended up in Beck’s hair and he begged, needy as he could manage,

“Come on, come inside me, please, Quentin,  _ fuck!” _

just to hear the way Beck groaned out “ _ Peter _ ” like he was lust personified. Peter let out a feeble moan—God, he was already stiffening up a bit from Beck’s efforts, what the hell was wrong with him—as Quentin pressed his forehead into Peter’s collarbone and came, forceful until he stopped all at once.

Peter made a little noise when Beck pulled out of him, tying off the condom to throw it somewhere else so he could gently place Peter’s legs back on the bed and lie down next to him. And Peter didn’t like being moved—he felt more jelly than person—but he put up minimal resistance when Quentin pulled him into his arms.

  
  


***

Quentin didn’t know what great deed he must have done in another life to end up with an armful of cuddly, fucked-out Peter Parker, but he accepted his reward and kept his arms tight around him. Peter curled up against him and burrowed into his chest, tucked under Beck’s chin; he was quickly realizing that it was one of Peter’s favorite places to be. 

“Are you feeling alright, sweetheart?” he murmured, stroking his curls gently. He still felt guilty from the tears that had spilled down Peter’s face, no matter how many times Peter had told him it was okay, and no matter how much of an asshole he usually was. In response, Peter nearly purred. 

“Yeah,” he said happily, stretching out his legs. “I feel good.” 

“Good.” And it was—he wanted Peter to feel good. He removed one arm from Peter, who whined immediately, to grab his phone off the bedside table. “Calm down, I’m just ordering food. Whaddya want?” 

“Oh, fuck, food,” Peter said. He quickly maneuvered himself so Quentin was behind him with one arm around his waist and the other scrolling through Doordash for Peter to see. The Chinese restaurant Peter chose would take about forty-five minutes to get delivered. Perfect. They were both disgusting. 

“You wanna take a bath, honey? It’s big enough for two people.” 

“If you carry me.” 

“Wouldn’t want it any other way.” 

An hour later, Peter was clean and sweet-smelling with damp curls, sitting on the couch on the patio. He’d had Quentin turn the fire pit on so he could sit in front of it in a very stolen, very oversized MIT sweatshirt and an absurdly tiny pair of shorts, holding a take out box in his hands. He was so close to Quentin he was almost in his lap. If he looked out towards the ocean, he could see the little flashes of light coming from the crashing waves. 

“So, wait, when  _ did _ you go to MIT?” Peter asked, drawing him out of his reverie. “I thought you went to Riverside.” 

Beck shook his head. “I was born in Riverside, then we moved to New York, but I moved back for undergrad and my MS. Then I went to MIT for my doctorate, but Massachussets fucking sucks, so I moved back out here, and the university liked me, so I’m still here.” 

Peter hummed. “Do you ever miss the city?” 

Quentin looked over at Peter. The light of the flame flickered in shadows over his face, and his curls reminded Beck of the ocean just down the hill, masked by the night—specifically, how pretty Peter would look on the beach, gently tousled by salt-sweet air. He wondered if Peter wanted to go on a walk in the morning. What was  _ happening _ to him?

“Maybe at one point I did,” Beck admitted. “But I like it here. What about you, kid?” 

“I miss my aunt,” Peter said, stirring his noodles around with his chopsticks. “And it’ll always be home. But I like it here, too. I mostly went here because of the scholarship, and the name, and the fact that everyone seemed so serious about their research, but it’s pretty, and it’s calm, and even when it’s dark outside you can hear the ocean.” 

“We should go tomorrow, if you want. There are a lot of quiet beaches, especially this time of year.” 

Peter looked so surprised that Quentin had no choice but to kiss him. 

It took several more incidents—wrapping Peter in his arms and watching baking shows on the couch until he couldn’t help but put Peter’s legs over his shoulders to eat him out slow and sweet (Peter’s hands felt so good in his hair as he moaned), carrying Peter off to bed and falling asleep only after seeing how peaceful Peter looked in sleep, arguing about the importance of accuracy in science fiction stories over breakfast, taking a walk on the beach watching the way the breeze made Peter’s curls dance around—for Quentin to realize, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that Peter was right. 

He, like a preschooler pulling their first crush’s hair to hide their feelings, was  _ smitten _ . 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everybody, you are all amazing and thoughtful and encouraging, so much so that you have turned me into a person who writes 10k word chapters. i promise i am not usually like this. 
> 
> the next update is more of an epilogue than anything else, and i originally planned for it to be relatively short and all fluff. however, peter mentions handcuffs in this chapter, and i am nothing if not opportunistic. so. stick around for some role reversals (and fluff)! as always i love seeing your comments and reactions to my extra-ness, so feel free to leave them. see you soon! <3
> 
> (also i just noticed i forgot to mention they live in california until this chapter. whoops)


	4. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've reached peak nasty

**5:43 PM**

Q: _Where are you?_

P: _ur house ;)_

 _  
_ Q: _?????_

When Peter didn’t reply, Quentin sighed and pocketed his phone. He’d told Peter to wait in his office, but the kid was restless—and so was Quentin. When they were grading midterms, Quentin had told Peter not to come until they finished, with fantastic results (quickly-graded tests and five orgasms for Peter in a single night). But Quentin felt that was unfair, and, of course, so did Peter. 

So for finals week, they _both_ decided not to come until they finished grading. 

They were so close. Peter and Quentin had spent nearly three days locked inside, and they were _so close_ to the end, but Quentin had one last end-of-semester department meeting, and Peter had his only in-class final that afternoon. Quentin had helped him study—the kid hardly needed it—then told him to stay in his office until he finished so they could go home together and grade the final few tests. 

But Peter, being _Peter_ , had apparently decided to go home without him. 

He quickly shut off everything in his office, giving it a final once over before shutting and locking the door behind him. The drive home took him less than ten minutes in his _frenzied state_. 

He had to hand it to himself—this was genuinely the most effective grading motivator he’d ever used. Quentin pulled into the driveway and shut off the car, grabbing his bag from the driver’s seat and marching up to the front door. Before he could shove his keys in the door, Peter opened it and flung his arms around Quentin’s neck.

“Whoa, whoa, Pete,” he said, dropping his bag just inside the door and wrapping his arms around Peter’s waist. He shuffled them forward so he could shut the door. “What’s going on here, sweetheart?”

Peter pulled back with the biggest grin he’d ever seen, and said, hoarse with excitement, “I finished.”

“ _All of them_?”

Peter nodded. “We’re done! We’re finally done!”

Quentin laughed, halfway to delirious, and picked a squealing Peter up off the ground. “You’re amazing, Pete,” he said, kissing his cheek. “How was your final, by the way?”

“Good. Banner likes me, so I should be fine,” he said, placing both his hands on Quentin’s face. _Everyone likes you_ , Quentin thought. “But that’s not important right now.”

“No,” Quentin agreed. “Bedroom?”

Peter nodded eagerly.

They were quicker than they were passionate—they had until Peter’s flight back home, as far as Quentin was concerned, to draw things out, so now was about pressing Peter down into the mattress and fitting them both into a single hand, jerking until they came. When Quentin laid down next to Peter, both of them panting lightly, he had other things on his mind.

“We should do something fun,” he said softly. “Something nice. We deserve it.”

“What do you have in mind?” Peter asked, glancing down. Quentin grinned.

“I meant we should go to that fancy mall down the street from University Center, Peter, don’t be nasty.”

“You’re naked. I can’t help it.”

“My eyes are up here, sweetheart.”

Peter groaned. “You know I love your chest, though.”

Quentin winked. “I know.”

Despite all their time together, and despite all the filthy, filthy things Quentin had said to Peter, he still blushed when Beck winked at him. “You really wanna go to the mall right now? It’s gonna be crowded from all the rich people Christmas shopping.”

Quentin sighed. “It’s outside, the weather’s cold enough to wear the clothes you like without being cold enough to be annoying, there’s a Lush there that we can get bath bombs from, I will buy you whatever you want, _and_ I’ll take you to dinner at one of the fancy restaurants so you can make fun of all the snobby rich people.”

“…Will you make fun of them with me?”

“Of course, princess. You know I love making fun of people.”

“I do know that,” Peter admitted. “Yeah, _fine_ , we can go.”

Quentin’s grin stretched over his face in triumph.

***

Peter was already surprised that Quentin wanted to go to the mall, so he was stunned when Quentin got out of the car and held his hand out to Peter, making little grabbing motions.

“What?”

“Hold my hand!”

Peter bit his lip. Shit, he wanted to hold Quentin’s hand _so bad_. “We’re right next to campus, Beck! There are people here from school all the time.”

“You’re in a school of 30,000 students, Pete, and as lovely as you are, I’m sure you’re not that popular. What are the odds that we spot someone who knows you _and_ me?” Quentin asked. “And besides, we finished grading! You’re not my TA any more!”

“Someone from _our class_ could see us. And even then, I’m still a student in your program.” Peter hated that he had to say no. “I don’t want to take any risks with that, and you shouldn’t either, dumbass. I’ll… I’ll hold your hand under the table at the restaurant, though. Fair?”

“Fair,” Quentin groaned.

But Beck cheered up nicely as soon as they started walking through the mall. They’d done it up pretty—there were strings of lights through the trees, a menorah statue in the central area by the food court, tinsel covering half the lampposts.  
  


Peter could admit that it was beautiful outside—and by looking at Quentin, he could tell he agreed. When they got to a less crowded area of the mall after dodging in and out of several shops, he pushed Quentin into a secluded corner behind a building and poked him in the chest.

“You,” he said to Quentin’s surprised but still smiling face. “Why are you so happy? It’s freaking me out.”

“You make it sound like I’m never happy,” Quentin said, grabbing his finger. “I’ll have you know I have a 95% approval rating on my course evaluations, Mr. Parker. My attitude is spectacular.”

“And they all say, Dr. Beck, _this grumpy bastard is an easy grader with a generous curve and a friendly TA_ ,” Peter said. He was mostly kidding—it wasn’t that Beck was never happy, it was that right now it seemed to overtake him completely. Beck rolled his eyes fondly. “Seriously, you’re halfway to manic right now.”

“I also haven’t slept in about a week, and even though my mean and terrible boyfriend won’t hold my fucking hand, I’m very happy to be spending time with him on this fine evening in a pretty place free of final exams,” Quentin said, still holding onto the finger Peter had pointed at him. “That alright with you, sweetheart?”

Peter narrowed his eyes, but before he could respond, Quentin leaned down and kissed him, quick and chaste, on the corner of his mouth. Peter blinked in response.

“Sorry,” he said with a laugh. Peter tugged him back down by the back of the neck and kissed him again, and when he pulled away, Beck asked, “Thought you were the one worried about getting caught?”

“I am,” Peter groaned. He nodded behind himself. “C’mon. Stop being so… whatever.”

“Eloquent,” Beck said, pushing himself off the wall. They walked back out of the corner.

“You are beyond what anyone is capable of expressing with words.”

“You know, that would be very sweet if you didn’t mean it as an insult.”

“I can mean it as both,” Peter mumbled. “Like you said. Brat is a term of endearment.”

“That it is,” Quentin said with a nod. 

Peter was glad for his resilience in refusing PDA, because when they came upon the center of the mall, he heard a very confused voice ask, 

“Peter? And— _Quentin_?” 

Peter’s eyes blew open and he looked to Quentin in panic. Quentin, though, seemed more annoyed than anything else. He plastered on a fake smile before turning around to see Tony Stark, sans wife and child.

“Tony,” he greeted. Peter knew it was faux-happy, though it didn’t necessarily come off that way, and he didn’t know why Quentin didn’t seem to like Stark. Peter smiled anyways.

“Hi, Professor Stark! What, uh, what are you doing here?”

“Hey, kid,” Stark said, and Peter felt Quentin tense up right next to him. “Just getting some last minute shopping done for Pepper and Morgan. I was never good at remembering to buy gifts, and you know how end-of-term grading is. Still got some left to go, but I figured if I don’t do this now I never will.” He directed the last part at Quentin with a nod. “Are you done already?”

“Yep!” Peter said. He couldn’t trust that Quentin wouldn’t give a snarky answer. “We finished really early. Quentin and I, um, make a really good team?”

“That we do,” Quentin said, placing an affectionate hand on his shoulder. He sounded so much stiffer than usual, and Peter realized that must partially be due to his professional voice. His cheeks warmed up at the idea that he got to see Quentin at his most relaxed. “This one is a treasure. I promised I’d take my favorite TA out for a drink after we finished that awful round of finals, but you know, tonight’s too beautiful to spend inside, so here we are.”

 _Good cover_ , Peter thought to himself. Maybe he could be trusted. He smiled to keep up the impression.

“That’s very nice of you, Quentin. And Peter really is a treasure. Great student during his undergrad years—I even wrote him a letter of rec to get into our grad program.”

“Well, I’m sure it was easy!” Quentin said with a hearty laugh. “The kid’s brain is incredible, not to mention the résumé and the test scores and, I’m sure, a breathtaking statement of purpose. Really, Peter’s something else, isn’t he?”

“Anyways!” Peter butt in nervously. He really, _really_ didn’t want the compliment war between Beck and Stark to continue, especially over him. “Um, it was nice seeing you, Professor Stark, but we should let you go back to shopping. the mall’s closing soon, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Stark said slowly. “Good to see you two, too. Happy holidays and all that.” He gave a brief wave before turning around to head off in the opposite direction.

Peter waited until Stark was out of ear shot, before whispering, “Holy shit, I’m _so_ glad we didn’t hold hands.”

“I’m not,” Quentin said with an eye roll. “I wish we did. I would’ve kissed you in front of that smug asshole if I didn’t know it’d make you uncomfortable.”

“Why don’t you like Stark? He was my favorite professor in undergrad,” Peter asked, with genuine curiosity.

“I just told you. He’s a smug asshole.”

“So are you. I figured you’d get along,” Peter said with a smirk.

“I don’t try to take credit for your accomplishments! You’re not Tony Stark’s darling protege. You’re Peter fucking Parker. You could’ve gotten a letter of rec from your dentist and gotten a full ride.”

“Oh,” he said simply. That was… sweet. Really sweet. “Thanks, Q. And you know, for all that talk about how I wasn’t the department angel, you sure did change your story.”

“I never said you weren’t a brilliant student, Parker. I know that firsthand,” Beck explained. He leaned down to whisper in Peter’s ear, “I just also happen to know that you’re a brat who needs a little discipline.” Peter shivered. Beck smiled. “It’s the end of the semester, honey. You like me better than _Professor Stark_?”

Peter mumbled something. Quentin quirked his eyebrows up and asked, “What was that, sweetheart?”

“I wanna go get dinner.”

“So we can hold hands under the table?”

“So I can kick you under the table.” Peter hesitated. “And so we can hold hands under the table.”

Beck snorted, but bumped him with his shoulder. “C’mon. Place is over here.”

***

They weren’t even to the front door when Peter squealed and started jumping up and down. Quentin looked over at him and frowned in confusion. 

“Uh, Pete, are you... okay?” 

“The box! I recognize the packaging!” Peter gasped out. Quentin looked over towards the door and, sure enough, there was a box propped up against the wall. “Oh my God, I ordered these so long ago, and they’re _finally here_!” 

“What’s finally here?” 

“It’s a surprise!” Peter said, swooping down to pick the box up. He cradled it to his chest. Beck moved past him to unlock the door, but kept his hand on it in favor of listening to Peter. “I do have a question, though. Do you want… are you alright with…?” 

“You have some devious sex toy in that box and you can’t even ask me if I want to use it?” 

“Shut up,” Peter said. His eyes were shining. “Do you?” 

“I mean, always, yes.” 

“Good!” Peter grinned. For someone who called him manic less than two hours ago, he was certainly acting somewhere left of stable. “Go to your room and do whatever you need to do, and I’ll be right there!” 

Before he could ask any more questions, Peter pushed past him and threw the door open, running inside. Quentin furrowed his eyebrows and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. 

This would be interesting, to say the least. 

He slipped his shoes off in the entryway, and by the time he had made it to his bedroom, Peter’s drawer in his dresser was noticeably wrenched open, and the guest bedroom down the hall was shut. Beck smiled to himself. The kid’s enthusiasm was endearing. 

He decided it best to change out of his dinner clothes into a plain black t-shirt and gray sweats—Peter always drooled over those, for some reason. When he was finished, he sat on his bed, back against the headboard, and waited. 

Finally, Peter knocked on his open door without entering, yelling for Quentin to sit on the bed with his eyes closed. 

“Halfway there already, kid,” he called back, but closed his eyes anyways. “Alright, done.” 

A moment later he heard Peter’s soft footsteps, then felt the bed shift under his weight until Peter was climbing on top of him. 

“Sweetheart?” 

“Seriously, don’t look!” 

And he didn’t, because for all of the shit he’d put Peter through to get them both off, he could listen for once. He even raised his arms when he felt Peter tugging at the bottom of his shirt, and allowed him to pull it off. And beyond that, he didn’t hear much beyond Peter adjusting something. 

But then he heard the click of handcuffs around his hand and the bedpost. 

“ _Peter._ ” 

The kid giggled, and secured the second pair. “Okay, you can open them now!” 

When Quentin opened his eyes, he had a lapful of Peter Parker, clad in downright sinful red panties, black thigh high socks, and one of Beck’s black button-ups, hanging loose and open over his lithe little body. He looked like a sin and he looked like an angel and Beck _knew_.

Beck knew _exactly_ what this was about.

“Pete, honey,” he said slowly, eyes wide in a mixture of terror and, _obviously_ , arousal. “What are you doing?” 

“Isn’t it obvious, sweetheart?” Peter asked, sweet as honey, and meaner than anyone as cute as him had a right to be. 

This was _definitely_ about midterms week. 

“I was thinking about gagging you,” Peter continued, “but as much as it’s pained me, I do love your pretty mouth.” 

And for once, Beck couldn’t do anything but moan as Peter leaned forward to kiss the breath out of him, surging forward with no real conviction as the cuffs held him back. He growled into Peter’s mouth, but the kid put one hand on his chin to hold him back and a smirk that Beck could feel on his lips. _Fuck_. He really was at Peter’s mercy—besides whatever he could talk Peter into, which, at that point, probably wasn’t much.

When Peter did pull back, it was lingering, only letting his eyes open when his face was inches away from Quentin’s, lips still parted. They twisted up slowly as Peter drug his eyes up to meet Quentin’s. 

“Do you like my outfit?” he asked softly, leaning back on Quentin’s lap. He pressed himself against Quentin’s bent legs and spread his own for Quentin to see.

The distant part of Quentin that knew he deserved this was vastly overpowered by _want_ when he saw how Peter had barely tucked himself into the red silk, the way his cock almost jutted out of the panties completely, the deep red against that soft pale skin of his.

“I don’t know if I’d call panties, thigh highs, and a stolen button-down an outfit,” Quentin said, far less composed than he’d like, “but you look like a dream, sweetheart.”

“What kind of dream?” Peter asked innocently.

“You know exactly what kind of dream, Peter,” Beck growled out. It was less heated than it was frustrated, and he tugged helplessly against the handcuffs once more.

“You’re not getting out until I let you out,” he teased. And before Quentin could think of something sharp, something witty, one of Peter’s delicate hands crept to the edge of the silk, and now slid over it, letting his fingers trace the outline of his cock. Leaning his head back, he moaned.

Quentin’s jaw might have dropped, just a bit, because he wasn’t kidding. Peter was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

The kid barely shifted his hips and Quentin had the urge to chase him, to grind up against him, but realized that aggression wouldn’t win him any favors when he had, literally, both hands tied behind his back.

“Pete,” he said softly. “You look so pretty like that, honey. You look so pretty for me.”

Peter blinked his eyes open, and Quentin was stunned that after all this time, he could still make Peter blush so easily. He hoped it would never stop. But Peter didn’t let it phase him; instead, he rolled his hips down onto Quentin’s lap and said,

“You look pretty for _me_ , too.”

And with another devastatingly mean smile, he climbed off Quentin’s lap entirely. A quick shock of fear ran down him and made him tense when he saw Peter grab the lube off their bedside table. It had to be on purpose, when he bent over and showed off the way the panties left so little yet so much to the imagination.

Peter came to sit right between his legs, laying back and propping himself up on one elbow so Beck could see the way he pulled his panties to the side to reveal that cute little hole of his. Quentin groaned before he even did anything, and Peter giggled at that.

“Princess,” he said exasperatedly, leaning his head back against the bed frame.

“Color?”

“Green, green, continue on with your torture session.”

“I plan to!” Peter said, and he dropped back down from his elbows to coat his fingers in lube, then propped himself back up. He only just circled his hole before plunging the tip of his index finger in with a breathy moan—Quentin moaned with him. He felt the motions just as closely as he did when it was his fingers in Peter; the cuffs might have prevented him from physically touching Peter, but the sight was almost more intense. Peter gracefully worked his way up to half a finger, and Quentin already felt like he was going to start sweating. 

He and Peter both stayed quiet for a little while, except for the occasional breathy, desperate moans. Quentin was already hard enough for it to make him want to squirm, but he didn’t want this to be too easy for Peter. If he was going to handcuff him to his own bed and make him watch as Peter fingered himself, he might as well have to work for Quentin’s eventual begging.

Well, Peter Parker was nothing if not a hard worker—and, unfortunately, Quentin’s biggest soft spot. 

Three fingers deep, he choked out, “Fuck, I wish, ah, I wish they were _yours_.” 

“What?” 

“Y-your fingers–they’re so much thicker than mine, I can’t even f-finger myself any more because I know how much _bigger_ yours are, they fill me up so good–”

“Let me give them to you–” 

“–and fuck, you stretch me so good, Q, till I’m so stuffed that I’m drooling, just h-helpless from your fingers, and, and gagging for your cock–”

“Baby,” he plead, and fuck, he hardly ever called Peter that. “I can give you them, just unlock one hand and I can give you what you need. I don’t need to come, I don’t need to get off, I just wanna help my little boy.” 

Peter moaned again, but still shook his head. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured, “but you gotta be good before you can fuck me.”

Quentin was going to pass out. The kid really was a prodigy.

He merely watched as Peter fingered himself until he collapsed into a panting heap on the bed. Beck was surprised he didn’t come from that, but there were no white stains on Peter’s belly or on his hip, and his panties, though damp with Peter’s arousal, didn’t seem to be particularly dirty.

“Did—did you—“

Peter shook his head, and Beck watched his chest rise up and down as he pushed himself back up on his elbows.

“No,” Peter said softly. “But I do have an idea.”

He climbed back off the bed, and Beck knew exactly what his idea was when he headed over to his closet and crouched down. Sure enough, Peter stood back up and faced Beck with a downright evil smirk spread over his face. The kid was too good; in his hands was Peter’s favorite dildo, dark red and almost as big as Beck. Quentin stifled a groan.

“You can make noises,” Peter reassured him, climbing back on the bed, because Parker apparently had a memory like a steel trap. “It’s just me.”

He watched in pure agony as Peter Parker, academic gem and golden boy, slicked up the dildo and, facing Quentin, slid down on it just like he would if he were riding Quentin’s cock. He looked like an angel when he moaned, all soft and sweet and open, and Quentin would give anything just to see his ass stretching to fit it.

It wasn’t as big as Quentin, but it was close enough.

“Fuck, princess, let me see your pretty hole, please, bet you look so good—“

Peter moaned in response.

“Please, Pete, I don’t even have to fuck you, just please, can I see you, honey?”

And Peter was close to bouncing up and down on the dildo, but he was nice enough to turn around and let Beck see the way his hole swallowed it.

Beck thought, suddenly, that this might have been a mistake, because now he moaned with Peter, shaky and fragile, rocking his hips forward in tiny circles as he pulled against the cuffs.

He thought to himself that he was absolutely going to _destroy_ Peter the next time he fucked him without the cuffs on, he was going to edge him until he cried (since, Peter admitted, he _did_ like being pushed that far), because holy shit, he might have been an asshole when he teased Peter, but this was cruel.

Eventually Peter was all but mewling on the dildo, begging for Quentin’s cock, and Quentin growled out,

“Then come get it, sweetheart, you know you can come sit on it.”

Peter turned so he was looking at beck, hair damp and face red, and he just smiled.

“It’s cute how you think I need permission. It’s not gonna make it any easier for you.”

Beck leaned his head back against the headboard and groaned, because holy fuck, he turned Peter Parker into a bonafide monster, and he couldn’t get enough.

But Peter did slip the dildo out, whining at the loss of fullness, and tossed it gently off the bed. He crawled over to Quentin again and sat in his lap, right over his dick, and Quentin moaned at the pressure. 

“You know,” Peter said conversationally, “I thought about putting a cock ring on you. That way even if I rode you until I came all over myself I could still torture you. But I’m not that mean, am I?”

Fuck, Beck sure hoped he wasn’t. He shook his head quickly. “No, sweetheart, you’re a good boy. You’re so nice to me.” 

Peter hummed with a smile on his face that said otherwise, and ran his hands over Beck’s abs. Beck smirked to himself. He knew how much Peter loved his body—enough to make sure his shirt was off before the handcuffs went on. The kid grabbed hold of his sweatpants and slid them down with his underwear, flinging them off the bed. He still faltered at quentin’s cock.

“I’m not that mean,” Peter said again, glancing back up at Beck’s face, lips parted in want. “Close your eyes again, and open your mouth.”

Beck’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but he didn’t question that Peter was the one in control, so he did as he said. The kid shifted around on the bed for a second before coming to crawl into Beck’s lap again, and he grabbed Beck’s chin. he whispered, 

“I am this mean, though.” 

Beck felt a ball of something soft and smooth being shoved in his mouth. He opened his eyes and immediately moaned. Peter was smirking at him with an evil little wave. 

Beck groaned around the panties that had been shoved into his mouth as a makeshift gag. Fuck, he was almost always the one in charge when it came to stuff like this, always the one teasing Peter, but this— _Peter_ —was hotter than anything, enough to fuel his wet dreams for the rest of his life. But he lost the one shot he had at making this easier on himself: his mouth.

“God, you look so good like that, sweetheart,” Pete said, and Beck swore, this little brat was gonna _get it_ the next time he had full use of his hands and mouth. He tried to talk around the gag. Nothing but mangled syllables came out. Peter bit his lip—he was staring at Beck’s mouth like he wanted to kiss him, and if Beck could have, he would have said, _Come on, princess, take these out, kiss me, I know you want to._

He supposed that was why Peter gagged him. 

Instead, Peter reached back and grabbed the bottle of lube without leaving Beck’s lap. They hadn’t used condoms since they got tested together, and he knew Peter was going to feel amazing, and he wanted nothing more than to hold his hips, to lift his legs up over his shoulders.

He shut his eyes tight against the overwhelming desire, but he gasped and reopened them when Peter’s hand—cold and slick—coated his cock with lube. Fuck, it felt so good for Peter to touch him, and anticipation ran through his body in a quick shiver when Peter positioned his cock right up against his hole. Peter leaned down and pressed their foreheads together.

“Green?” he asked softly. Beck nodded without hesitation, eyes wide, and Peter’s grin was immediate. “Good.”

Finally, finally he pushed the head of Beck’s cock into his hole, and they moaned in sync as he did. Peter was panting as he slowly, deliberately sunk down all the way to the hilt. He placed his hands on Beck’s shoulders.

Quentin listened to Peter’s breathing in an attempt to regulate his own, quick and excited in his chest. Peter pressed a kiss to his cheek before he started rocking himself gently up and down on Beck’s cock.

He was glad Peter didn’t attempt to restrain his legs in anyway, otherwise he would have truly been helpless. But now he rolled his hips up to meet Peter’s, and it wasn’t as good as touching him, but he still watched the way Peter’s face twisted up in little moans of pleasure. Yeah, _that_ was good—his baby all flushed and whimpering on his cock. Fuck, even when he tied him up and gagged him, Peter still looked like an angel.

But then Peter lifted up so only the tip was left in him, and when he slammed down again, it knocked the breath out of Quentin, who made a muffled noise against the panties in his mouth. Peter smiled, still panting, and did it again. And again. The pace became brutal and punishing; Peter’s endurance was impressive, keeping it up so well. Beck still rocked his hips with him, leading to downright sinful noises coming from Peter.

He was caught between the desire to close his eyes, as he flexed his wrists again the handcuffs and curled his toes, and the need to see every inch of Peter. He made a weak noise of protest when Peter’s hands moved from his shoulders— _keep touching me_ , he begged in his head, _keep touching me_ —to place them on top of the headboard. The noises turned pleasurable when Peter used the position as leverage, rocking back and forth even faster.

“Fuck, Q,” Peter whined, and Beck’s eyes flew to his face. He wanted nothing more to reassure Peter, to take care of him, and fuck, he knew he liked Peter a lot, maybe even more, but the fact that not being able to show it was a genuine form of torture made his stomach turn, in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant but was certainly disruptive. “Y-you feel so good, fuck, I need you—“

 _You’ve got me, honey_ , he thought, and _fuck_ , all he wanted was to tell him, to hold him—

“Ngh, your cock, fuck, your cock fits so perfect in m-me, _ah_ ,” he said, high-pitched and breathy, wavering as he bounced on Quentin’s cock. “Mm, f-fuck, feels so good to take it, ah, fuck, miss your hands on me—“

Beck knew Peter was saying it to rile him up, to make him tug against his bonds and speak fruitlessly ( _let me touch you, princess, please_ ) against the gag. Peter was a _brat_.

It worked, though.

Beck knew his wrists were probably bruised, but whatever, school was over. All that mattered was Peter, all-consuming and evil and mean and _perfect_ —

Just the thought had him uncomfortably close.

“Fuck, fuck, Quentin, I-I’m so close already, a-are you—?”

Quentin nodded, sweat dripping down his forehead. Fuck, he’d be surprised if there wasn’t drool all over his chin. Peter Parker made him a mess.

And Peter knew that, since he released the headboard from his grip and leaned back to grip Quentin’s thighs, using them to better thrust himself down on Quentin’s cock. Beck smacked his head against the bed and moaned. Peter’s hands, the soft material of the thigh highs that barely touched his legs, his tight, warm little hole, his naughty little mouth— _fuck, he was going to come_ —

They both groaned, like _animals,_ when Beck’s come filled Peter up.

“Oh, fuck,” Peter said, half-delirious, still grinding down on his cock. “I can feel it, ngh, you feel so good in me, Q.”

 _Come for me, baby_ , he thought, and it must have had some effect, since Peter sped up one last time with a litany of little moans and whines until he was chanting Quentin’s name. He clenched around him—fuck, he felt _so good_ —as he came, shooting little spurts of white all over his cute little stomach.

It only took a few moments for Peter to pull off of Beck’s cock with a soft moan and take the panties out of Beck’s mouth, a trail of spit following them. Beck popped his jaw, then panting, looked Peter in the eye and said, “You’re evil.” 

“Learned from the best,” Peter said with a small smile, and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth. He undid the handcuffs, and before Beck could say anything else, Peter hugged him tight around the chest, and despite all of _that_ , Beck wrapped his arms around Peter and held him there, smiling softly.

Peter pulled back, after a while, and kissed Beck’s wrists where they were hurt from the handcuffs. He whispered, “That was okay, right?” 

“It was kind of ridiculously hot,” he admitted, quoting Peter back to himself. Peter giggled and hugged Beck again, and Beck’s heart was full as he kept Peter in his arms, chin resting on his head. “Can’t believe you stuffed your panties in my mouth, you little dominatrix.”

“I had to shut you up somehow,” Peter said, and Beck rolled his eyes fondly. “And you looked so good I almost came on the spot.”

“You’re one to talk,” Beck murmured. “The prettiest boy in the world in my bed, and I couldn’t even touch him.”

“Karma,” Peter said simply. He lifted his head off Beck’s chest and ran his hand through Beck’s hair. “You wanna take a bath with one of the bath bombs we got? We’re both kind of really gross and the silver one looks really pretty, and it’ll probably make you all glittery, which is a personal interest of mine.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Beck said, circling his arms around Peter’s waist. “Are you gonna be mad if I order a whole cheesecake? We can eat it on the patio, if you’re not too cold.”

Peter’s laugh was so happy and bright that Beck thought he might really have an angel in his lap. “Yeah, you weirdo, you can Doordash a whole cheesecake. I might wanna watch a movie after that, though.”

“You can say you want to cuddle Edith on the couch. I won’t be mad.” It was true: he was deeply endeared by the way his mean, mean cat seemed to love Peter.

“I wanna cuddle you _and_ Edith on the couch.” Oh. Beck couldn’t do anything but look up at Peter like he was a dream. Peter laughed again–it seemed like coming as hard as he did made him all glowy around the edges. “Did I break you?”

“I told you thigh highs would turn me into a feral animal.”

“Not to be nasty, but I wouldn’t be opposed if you fucked me like one,” Peter said, and Beck groaned. It was times like these when he remembered he was dating someone in their early twenties. “Tomorrow, though. I’m good for now.” He paused for a moment then added, “I think.” 

“Peter Parker,” he said, “you are a nightmare and a gift.”

***

Peter loved sex with Quentin, obviously. How couldn’t he? Quentin was gorgeous and strong and very, very experienced and just the right amount of controlling mixed with caring and gentle and even when Peter was the one in charge he looked so good desperate and—

Anyways. He loved fucking Quentin.

But sometimes, he loved the aftercare even more.

Specifically, he loved when, after their ritual of bathing with products that made them soft and sweet-smelling and eating in front of the ocean, they would lay on the couch in the living room and watch whatever caught their eye. Usually, their position was the same as it was that night—Peter sitting up against the back of the couch while Beck, laying down on his back, rested his head in Peter’s lap as Peter played with his hair. Edith was curled up near Peter’s other side. Half of the time, Peter would end up looking down at him rather than at the movie. It was hard not to.

“You have glitter in your beard,” Peter said softly, smiling. “It’s very dreamy.”

Quentin moved his head from the television screen to glance up at Peter. “Am I the Disney prince of your dreams yet?”

“Getting closer,” Peter admitted. “I think you would look handsome with longer hair. Like, Flynn Rider from _Tangled_ hair.”

“I don’t know who that is, but I’m not growing my hair out.”

Peter pouted. “But you would look so _dreamy_.”

“Am I not dreamy enough for you, Parker?”

“Yeah, you’re dreamy, but I think I would pass out on the spot if you grew your hair out. _That’s_ how dreamy you would be.”

Quentin sighed fondly. “So demanding. Next you’ll be begging me to wear tights and capes.”

“Your fault for calling me _princess_ all the time! The natural next step is me wanting a prince.”

“And I think you’re royalty without changing anything about yourself.”

Peter laughed through his nose and cupped Quentin’s face in his hand. “You might not have the hair, but you’re still so charming.”

Beck stared up at him in silence for a few seconds, before he said, very softly, “I love you.”

 _Oh_. That was—that was the first time they’d ever said that. Peter smiled so big it crinkled up his eyes, and smoothed his thumb over Beck’s cheek. “I love you, too.”

Beck smiled back and placed his hand over Peter’s, keeping it against his cheek. 

“Even if you’ve never seen _Tangled,_ ” Peter added.

Quentin groaned. “Do you want to watch _Tangled_ ? You can just say you want to watch _Tangled_.” 

“I really, really do,” Peter admitted. “It’s so romantic! The _lights_ , Quentin!” 

“Don’t spoil it, princess,” Quentin said, reaching for the remote. 

Yeah. He liked this part better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO you might have noticed that though this fic is completed this is now... part 1... of a series :-) otr you are all very nice and i love writing these two dumbasses very much, so i do have more planned with them! unfortunately i also started school last week, so i'm not planning on updating said series until at least the end of the month, BUT i do have Plans. so feel free to subscribe to that or to my account or just keep an eye out in the tag.
> 
> thanks so much for reading and i will see you all soon!! <3

**Author's Note:**

> i'm a ridiculous bisexual college student with a jake gyllenhaal fetish. what else can i say. the second half of this fic is where it earns the explicit rating. i will post it soon (???)
> 
> please like/comment/bookmark/subscribe/etc to motivate me ;* 
> 
> ((title is from house of wolves by mcr because i'm embarrassing)


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